Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset
by Anthea Rose
Summary: Draco Malfoy is beyond infuriated when a bored Daily Prophet pins him as gay, and he's willing to do anything to prove his heterosexuality - even accept help from an aloof but sympathizing Harry Potter. DMHP SLASH!
1. The Flaming Article

_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Authoress Ramble**: I started this story when I was staying home sick with a mild headache, so I can't promise that it will be very good. I do promise, however, that if I get reviews, I will continue, and if I don't, this story will end in its youth. Thank you for stopping in for a read, in any case, and I hope that you have a nice day!

**Warnings**: This story has been rated R for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**_REALLY IMPORTANT UPDATE REGARDING QUOTATION MARKS!_** So. I'm back from the dead, addressing this story that I wrote ... my god ... seven years ago now. It's hard to swallow reading my writing - I was so much younger then. The series wasn't even finished when I wrote this. Still, despite being silly, I think the story is all in good fun, and redeemable just for the fact that it's enjoyable to read. With the goal of eventually finishing this thing (I did put a lot of effort into it, after all), I'm now going through every chapter to refresh myself with the plot and fix grammar, major plots holes, etc. I'm also trying to fix the quotation mark issue. Why this site decided to delete them all, I don't know, but at this point I have to physically change every quotation mark from an error image to an actual quotation mark. I'm sorry to everyone who found the story unreadable in the meantime - I hadn't looked at this in years. Right now I'm up to Chapter 6 with the tidying up business, so if you find you need quotation marks, maybe just read up until that point and wait to read as I fix more chapters? Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. I'm still kind of on the fence as to whether or not it's all worth it, but a lot of people seem to like the story, so ... what the hell.

**Beautiful Malfoy Bachelor: Living In a Broomcloset?**

_"With Lucius Malfoy now imprisoned in Azkaban, his only son and heir, Draco Malfoy, finally finds himself free to express his true sexual heritage, friends close to the wealthy young man say._

_'We'd always known he was a bit fruity,' one insider reports. 'Too girlie to be on the straight and narrow, if you know what I mean. But it was only after his father got locked up that he really started to show it off. Not afraid to _flaunt_ it anymore, I guess.'_

_Keeping to the popular Wizarding code phrase, it seems that young Malfoy is finally ready to 'come out of his broomcloset'. Acquaintances near and dear to him disclose now the methods through which he expresses this formally hidden side of himself._

_'He spends hours in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions,' one reveals, 'Trying on robe after robe, like a bloody girl. He showers for ages, and uses _herbal-scented _hair-cleasing potion. Oh, and you've probably noticed his hair. He spends more time on his hair than any girl in the entire House.'_

_Another of Malfoy's companions went on to comment further on his friend's particular choice of clothing._

_'He wears these really tight black turtleneck sweaters, and these snug black trousers all the time,' he explains, 'And his boxers are all made from ... from _silk_.'_

_'If he wears them at all,' the other adds, with a friendly, good-natured laugh. 'Oh yeah, and he's got this really expensive perfume imported from Paris ...'_

_Clearly, this popular wizard, long-adored by young witches for his dazzling looks and loaded pockets, may be further out of reach than ever thought possible. We can now only hope to congratulate the wizard that will someday steal his steeled heart. Perhaps a well-toned French Quidditch player will catch his fancy ..."_

Blaise and Pansy, both seated at either side of Draco, began sliding hastily down the bench as his fingers curled deeply into the paper, his knuckles growing white as his fingernails punched faithfully through.

A moment later, the _Daily Prophet_ exploded in a burst of flames from the center out, causing several shrieks to emancipate from Slytherin table. He threw it aside, watching with narrowed eyes as it fluttered down, ashes flying, into a large punch bowl of pumpkin juice.

"Whoever did this," he hissed slowly, grabbing the edges of the table now instead, barely holding back his flaring temper. "I'll hex their genitalia into flobberworms, sterile, starved flobberworms ... and then feed them their own intestines ... _fucking_ ..."

"Draco, darling, calm down," Pansy's voice quivered from a good ten feet away. She reached out a hand tentatively, as if to pat his shoulder, though she was too far away to do so. "The _Daily Prophet_ is just getting bored ... not much has happened lately, you know .."

"And at least it was only on the sixth page, huh?" Blaise added meekly, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Like that _fucking makes it any better__!_," he screamed, violently barring his pearly white teeth. A group of first years screamed as all of the goblets from Draco's seat and outward began to shatter one after another, sending shards of glass flying into plates of half-eaten breakfasts.

"I'll going to hunt down the sorry arseholes that did this and _kill them all_ ... slowly ... _so_ slowly .." he muttered, biting down into his pink lower lip until a stream of blood began to flow steadily down his chin.

Pansy shot a desperate look over the top of Draco's head to Blaise, who shrugged miserably and mouthed a pathetic 'this is bad' to her. Both made no move to sneak any closer to their friend, who had snatched a large knife from a plate of breakfast sausages and was now stabbing it passionately into a large pile of pancakes.

"Miserable ... _fucking_ ... _Crucio!_ ... bastards .."

"Hey, listen, destroying all of the food won't help any," Blaise said consoling, his voice trembling a little. Draco froze, giving the pancakes a final slash before throwing the knife dispassionately into the same punch bowl in which flaming shreds of the morning's _Daily Prophet_ still burned.

"You should write them a strongly-worded letter of outrage," Pansy added, nodding to herself as if to back up her own words.

"You're right," Draco mumbled. "I'll send them a Howler .. one enchanted to seek and behead Rita Skeeter .. yes .."

"No, no, no beheading just yet," Blaise muttered. "Ehrm ... just .. just calm down .."

"I don't know who to kill first," Draco continued lazily, his slate gray eyes staring eerily out into space.

Meanwhile, the Gryffindor table had fallen into a hushed state of shock and silence which almost immediately gave way to a wave of eager snickering and gossip.

"Oh .. my," Hermione murmured, paling as she began to automatically fold closed her copy of the _Daily Prophet_, the moving image of Malfoy holding a shimmering gray robe up to himself in front of a store mirror scowling at her as she did so. "This is .."

"So much funnier than anything we could have thought up," Ron said excitedly, cramming a sausage into his mouth. He had been reading over her left shoulder, grinning the entire time and occasionally spitting out half-chewed mouthfuls in his laughter. "Ehh, Harry?"

"I wonder who did this," Harry said slowly, running a finger calmly down the front of the folded _Prophet. "_I could see someone who hated him doing this, someone from Gryffindor ... but from his own House?"

"I understand what you're saying," Hermione frowned. "I had always assumed that he had them all under some kind of .. spell. Not literally, of course, but .."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, his downcast eyes settling on the bold headline. "Yeah."

"What is _wrong_ with you two?" Ron asked incredulously, casting them both a disgruntled frown. "This is _Malfoy_ we're talking about! We should all be laughing our arses off!"

Hermione sighed, shaking her head slowly as Ron shoved a large piece of pancake joyfully into his mouth.

"I'll admit it, Ron, this is a rather .. amusing .. article," she began regretfully. "But the fact that the _Daily Prophet_ is willing to sink so low just to sell papers .."

"Is a truly great thing," Ron announced with a smile. "Not only does it mean more fun for us, but it also means that nothing more exciting is happening. No Death Eater attacks, no deaths! They're desperate."

"Exactly, Ronald," Hermione said, turning to glare at him, annoyance in her hazel eyes. "They're desperate for a story .. don't you realize what this could mean?"

"More trash about Malfoy?" he grinned, cutting apart an egg happily.

"_No, _Ron!," she hissed loudly, immediately wiping the smile off of his face with her rare scowl. "It means that _Harry is probably next_!"

"Thanks for being so blunt, 'Mione," Harry interjected wearily.

"Sorry Harry," she apologized quickly, though without turning away from Ron's rapidly reddening face. "I can't believe how _insensitive_ you are! Honestly!"

"But ... but Harry's not _gay_," Ron protested, swallowing his mouthful in a single nervous gulp.

Harry flinched at this, freezing in downing his pumpkin juice, then reluctantly continuing.

"They'll think of some _other _kind of controversy to connect with him, Ron," Hermione sighed, exasperated. "I thought I'd silenced that insufferable woman ... honestly, what a conniving bitch .."

Ron gasped, paling. "Did you just _swear_, Hermione?"

"Huh?" she questioned, the corner of her mouth twitching. "What? Oh, no ... I said, 'what a conniving _witch_' .. you know, Skeeter .."

"Oh, right," Ron said automatically, a pathetic expression tracing his face.

Harry sighed miserably, weakly taking a bite of toast. As much as the article had amused him, it foreshadowed too much of what was surely to come. He'd been made sick over the articles written about him that had been published throughout his fourth and fifth years ... he didn't think he could take a sixth.

Back at the Slytherin table, Draco was twisting his finger angrily in his hair, a habit triggered only by the most uncontrolled of fury.

"We'll help you find out who did it, Drake," Pansy assured him, flinching as he flicked his finger in the direction of the large punch bowl, sending it skidding off the table only to land with a large crash on the floor. "Honey, stop that ..."

"You two can shut up at any time," he whispered dangerously. "You aren't helping."

He pointed his wand in the direction of a large platter of eggs, all of which instantly transfigured into dainty piles of black ash.

"Umm, Draco?" Blaise gasped, sliding a foot further away.

"Hush," Draco hissed, turning his eyes for the first time toward the Gryffindor table. He frowned, bearing his teeth slightly at the sight of many of its inhabitants, especially those in his year, laughing and eagerly discussing the article, gray copies of the _Prophet_ littering the table. His eyes slid down the table ... there.

Weasley appeared to be sulking, chewing on a lump of food without much passion at all ... an amused Weasel would usually be shoving his face like a pig. Granger was cutting piles of a pancake into impossibly tiny pieces, her face pale and tense, her eyes keenly avoiding those of Ron.

Where the fuck was their joy? He would have thought those two to be the happiest out of everyone. Well, those two and, naturally ... Potter.

He shifted his gray eyes to his aforementioned enemy. He was staring down at his plate, looking pathetic, a cross between misery and the tense calm that mild anger evoked in him.

Why the fuck weren't they laughing?

"Fucking bastards," Draco growled, standing abruptly. Pansy and Blaise turned to him immediately, their eyes wide with surprise.

"Come on, class is starting soon," he ordered mildly, passing disgusted eyes over the Slytherin table in his immediate vicinity, which was now littered with slashed pieces of pancake, random piles of ashes, large puddles of pumpkin juice and sparkling fragments of shattered crystal.

_"Reparo_," he drawled lazily, pointing at the mess with his wand. In an instant, the breakfast table looked completely untouched, the punch bowl fully intact and sitting back in its original place on the table, though it was now empty of juice less a very shallow bit in the bottom. All of the food was back to normal, though the egg platter was empty as well. A row of goblets sparkled perfectly next to their pale, shaking first year owners.

"Right," Draco muttered. "Let's go."

Mustering as much dignity as he could in his current state of mildly sedated rage, he swept out of the Great Hall, heading toward the dungeons with Pansy and Blaise, both casting each other worried looks, in his wake.

"I told you that avoiding interference was the best option," Professor Snape commented haughtily from the staff table, watching his best student disappear from the Hall with slight pride on his face. "You see, Minerva. He repaired every bit of damage."

"Luckily, he did," she replied dryly, pressing a napkin daintily to her lips. Next to her, Professor Dumbledore smiled gently.

"I think he handled it rather well, actually," he added, his eyes twinkling calmly as usual. "Considering Mr. Malfoy's temperament."

"Perhaps," Professor McGonagall frowned. "But I shudder to think what will happen when those punch bowls are instead his fellow _students_."

"Nonsense, he would _never_ conduct himself in such an uncivilized manner," Snape snapped. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have a class to teach."

He stood abruptly, walking quickly from the staff table, black robes billowing behind him, just as three Gryffindor students stood from their breakfasts as well.

"We have Potions now," Ron announced, unable to keep a smirk from snaking its way onto his face. "Double Potions with _Malfoy_ .."

"If you _dare_ say anything, Ronald Weasley," Hermione warned, glaring at him severely.

"'Course not, 'Mione," he grinned, his blue eyes glimmering with mischief.

Harry, following just behind the two, sighed, checking briefly to make sure that his wand was indeed safely inside his pocket. He had a strange feeling that he would be needing it before the day ended.

Was it good? Did it suck? Did Draco blowing innocent objects apart kinda turn you on? Hey my darling, that wasn't a rhetorical question: look there, a review button! **Click upon it and earn my love! **I'll even respond to your review in the next chapter I write, because I'm sweet like that ...


	2. The Taking of Granger's Sweet Lips

_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Authoress Ramble**: I also wrote this chapter while lazy and enduring a headache, so the same warning as previous applies. I think this chapter is a bit more ... interesting ... mmm, I hope so anyway.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

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"Ahem."

The chattering noise in the Potions dungeon was nearly to the point of deafening with everyone in both the Slytherin and Gryffindor Houses talking animatedly about the scandal that was this morning's sixth page of the _Daily Prophet_. They were all so busy gossiping, sniggering and discussing, in fact, that only a few noticed Professor Snape tapping his throat lightly with his wand.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, ALL OF YOU!"

The students jumped at the magically magnified voice, all of them immediately sinking into their seats as they pulled them out with a loud screech. Professor Snape nodded grimly as quiet finally settled over the room.

"Ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin for so rudely delaying the start of this class," he hissed in a near whisper. A few of the students gasped; he was in a foul mood indeed if he was willing to scrape points from his own House.

"Before we begin, I'd like to make it clear that the first _Daily Prophet _I see floating around this classroom is worth seventy-five points from its owner's House. Is that understood?"

A few of the students nodded blankly, and Professor Snape went on, ignoring the dark scowl that had twisted Draco Malfoy's lips at the mention of said newspaper.

"Today we will be brewing a _painfully_ simple draught meant to scourge the blood of its taker from mild disease. Specific targeted strains are listed in your textbook .."

Snape droned on, explaining the Healing value of the potion as Harry stared blankly in the general direction of the front of the classroom. He knew that he appeared to be zoning out, but he didn't care; he had more important things on his mind.

One of them, strangely enough, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry cast him curious looks from time to time, studying the back of his head with slight nervousness. The other boy appeared calm, listening attentively to his most preferred Professor, but Harry saw the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the edge of his table, saw the vein throbbing pink along his white throat.

That and he could sense the magic crackling around him in an invisible cloud, sparking black and green. He was angry enough to kill.

Hermione was wise to make sure Ron got nowhere near him now.

Harry frowned, scribbling notes, though he really had no idea what Snape was attempting to teach him. He hated the blond bastard, surely, hated him for the years of torment he'd lent them in their first few years together. Now that they were older, of course, that torment was channeled much differently; he no longer cared to insult them bluntly to their faces, rather finding much shrewder, less direct ways to anger him and his two friends.

But even that he did less and less, only harassing them when he felt bored. Harry knew that.

And despite the fact that he knew Malfoy was an arse, and in part deserved what had happened to him, he couldn't help but feel a shred of sympathy for the insufferable prat. After all, he was currently living what Harry considered one of his worst nightmares.

The Potions class went rather well, partly due to Snape's threats and partly due to general fear of the extremely pissed Slytherin. He worked quietly with Pansy, chopping herbs with unnecessary passion, ignoring his partner when she attempted to gently persuade him to surrender the knife.

Snape was apparently too concerned with analyzing Malfoy to devote much attention to keeping Harry awake, and as such he moved lazily from task to task, not putting particular effort into any part of the lesson. Ron and Hermione partnered together, and though he heard his best friend snigger from time to time, he was relieved to hear his snorts of amusement always followed by a soft smack and a quick reprimand.

It went so well, in fact, that Harry should have been expecting the tension to explode sooner rather than later.

The class ended, and immediately upon Snape's begrudging sneer of farewell, all of the students rushed for the doors. Malfoy was one of the first to reach them, shoving through the crowd roughly with Pansy tailing him.

He was walking down the dungeon corridor, fists clenched at his sides, when Ron, having escaped from Hermione's hawk-like surveillance in the rustling crowd, found him.

"They have a point about the tight sweaters, you know."

At first, Malfoy froze, as if deciding whether or not he thought it worth it to turn around. After a moment, unfortunately, he slowly did.

"You know, Weasel," he drawled, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line, "There are circles in Hell reserved for your kind. You have no class. Not a single _shred _of it."

Ron frowned, not sure what to make of this. He'd been expecting a far simpler insult.

"And neither do you, Malfoy," he shot back, ignoring the way his opponent rolled his pale eyes in exasperation. "I should have pinned you for a queer earlier!"

"I am _not_ gay, you worthless excuse for a wizard," he sneered quickly. "Do you believe everything you read in the fucking _Daily Prophet_? They published some charming shit about Potter, if I can remember correctly."

"That was different. They had some convincing evidence to back up their story this time," Ron smirked. "Tell me, exactly what kind of _perfume_ do you use? _Chanel?"_

"I don't have time for this, Weasel," Malfoy growled. "I'll say it one last _fucking_ time: _I am not fucking gay_!"

He had clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles losing blood from the pressure, his fingernails digging deeply into his palms. Streams of blood began to trickle down them, a few drops hitting the stone floor soundlessly. Ron began to back away slowly.

"Oh yeah?" he challenged, though his voice was trembling. "Well, then .. prove it!"

_"What_?" Malfoy hissed, stepping forward, his eyes narrow slits.

"Prove that you aren't really gay!" Ron affirmed, the smirk on his face slowly fading. A few students had stopped to watch them, pale-faced; they were keeping a safe distance from the furious Slytherin.

"How?" Malfoy asked tersely, a smirk crossing his face. Unknowingly, Ron recognized that smirk: it meant he was about to be hexed into pitiful oblivion.

"Ahh, err ... kiss a girl!" Ron blurted out nervously. Malfoy stopped in his tracks.

"Weasley," he said slowly, stretching his bloody fingers stiffly, "If it would prove your sorry arse wrong, I will kiss the _first fucking female I lay eyes on_."

"Deal, then," Ron breathed, glad for the moment that he was not about to be murdered by wand in the middle of the corridor. He paused nervously, his pale hands shaking.

And then, his worst nightmare came to life.

"Ronald Weasley, what do you _think_ you are doing?" Hermione hissed, storming up behind him, her cheeks flushed with anger. She lowered her voice, casting her eyes briefly on Malfoy. "You could have been _seriously hurt_!"

Malfoy's slate-grey eyes had begun to glimmer silver with amusement as he eyed Hermione, noting both her anger and the terrified expression on Ron's pale, freckled face.

"Hello, Granger," he said loudly, a twisted grin spreading across his face.

Hermione eyed him uneasily, not answering, before turning back to Ron.

"Come with me," she ordered in frustration. "Let's just go."

"Yeah, let's go," Ron readily agreed, the sinking feeling of dread disappearing briefly from his stomach. He turned to go, more than eager to run off.

"Oh no, not just yet," Malfoy drawled, stepping forward quickly and reaching out. He snatched Hermione's wrist, twirling her back around.

She gasped, the expression on her face shifting from surprise to disgust to pure, unadulterated horror.

"What are you _doing_?" she gasped, pulling at her wrist. "Let me go!"

"Let go of her wrist _now_, Malfoy!" Ron shouted, struggling to find his wand in his oversized robe.

"I can't," Malfoy said, raising an eyebrow apologetically. "You see, Weasley and I made a little .. _deal_, just now. Didn't we, Weasel?"

"You wouldn't dare," Ron hissed, though dread was alive in his voice.

Malfoy merely smirked good-naturedly, his eyes locked on the wide ones of Hermione. He shrugged, clearly amused.

"Anything to prove you wrong, Weasel," he said simply, and then tugged Hermione harshly forward. She took a step and gasped, raising her hand to slap his face.

Malfoy saw this, darting his head forward just in time to avoid the blow of her palm. He jerked his head quickly to the side and then, as Ron gaped in horror, pressed his lips hard to those of Hermione.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she struggled, but Malfoy quickly wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close to him. A shiver of disgust ran down his spine, settling in the depths of his stomach. He broke away quickly, feeling as though he would throw up - were it not, however, for the miserable, terrified expression marring Ron's face as he glanced at him.

Yes, that definitely brought the smile back to his face.

"Ma-Malfoy!" Hermione gasped, stepping back as soon as he released her. She had paled visibly, shocked; he tilted his head innocently to the side, waiting.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she stuttered, the blood now completely drained from her face.

"In order to prove my heterosexuality, the Weasel here ordered me to kiss the first female I laid eyes on," Malfoy explained calmly, momentarily delighted at first that he had surely given Granger permanent mental damage. "That's all."

Hermione froze, glaring at him icily; she then turned, giving Ron the exact same horrified, furious glare.

"You did _what_?" she hissed, staring daggers into his freckled forehead.

"I didn't expect it to be _you_, 'Mione," he shuttered weakly. "Honestly!"

"We are leaving," she commanded, her voice trembling slightly as she shot Malfoy a final disgusted glance. _"Now_."

Ron nodded miserably, following her as she stormed away down the corridor. With her, the gawking crowd of students left as well, most of them too shocked to comment on the event with Malfoy still standing there, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

He brushed off his black sweater, feeling slightly proud of himself. Leave it to the Weasel to invent an idea so creative that even he hadn't thought of it himself. Granger and Weasley would both be scarred for life, now. He snickered.

"That was interesting," a voice commented. Malfoy spun around to his left; there, leaning against the wall, an angry frown on his face, was Harry Potter. Apparently, he had been previously hidden by the crowd that had just dispersed.

"Potter," Malfoy spat, surprised. "I didn't notice you there. Enjoyed the show, did you?"

Harry stood up fully, stepping forward, away from the dungeon wall. His green eyes were blazing with perfectly controlled fury.

"You can wipe that smirk off your face, Malfoy," he said slowly. "Not even _that_ can make the article disappear, nor change what anyone thinks about your sexuality."

"Really now, Potter?" Malfoy sneered. "I thought it was a very convincing little demonstration."

"Oh trust me, it was," Harry said, smirking now himself. "You looked absolutely disgusted at having to kiss her. Kiss a _girl_ like her, I should say."

Malfoy scowled, reaching into his robes and pulling out his wand, blood rushing immediately into his pale cheeks. Harry stared at him, appraising him slightly. He let his eyes trail up and down Malfoy's body, whose limbs were frozen in fury.

He met his grey eyes and raised a single eyebrow. The smirk on his face never faltered.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy spat, waiting for him to pull out his wand, annoyed by the fact that he was just standing there, just _staring_ at him like the haughty arsehole he was.

Harry shrugged, his eyebrow still raised. With that, he turned and began walking down the hall, strolling calmly off to his next class.

Malfoy lowered his wand, his jaw loosening slightly.

He had plenty of reasons to hate Potter, but this .. this was a new reason. A much more infuriating reason.

The fucking bastard.

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You're probably thinking, the hell, this said it was slash! Well, yes it is, but I thought this would be ... well ... I have hidden authoress-type motives up my sleeves. So, ahh ... review if you liked it, or even if you hated it, because those are fun too! And I will respond with wit and joy. I loveth you all!


	3. Estranged And Insatiable

_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Authoress Ramble**: I got a guinea pig today! She's beautiful and awesome, but very skittish, and very shy. I like the way they 'meep' so much ... kinda like the way I love to hear humans whimper ... hee. =3

**Warnings**: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaime**r: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**I love the people who review, and I prove it by answering their reviews! Hurrah for these awesome people, who rock! Thanks for your comments.**

chimixmi858: Thank you. =D I liked the appraising scene too, that my favorite to write, even over Hermione being slightly molested. -hugs-

**willow-nymph: **Damn you, the slashy goodness is coming! I need Harry/Draco too ... that's why I read fanfiction like crazy when I'm not writing ... it keeps me warm inside.

**ineth Tinethele**: I can't pronounce your name, and I can barely spell it ... thanks for loving it, and I do hope I get to keep writing. 3

**Kuraii Koneko**: I feel you! It's so lame when Draco starts out as IC and then suddenly leaps in Harry's lap, pouting for love. We love our evil, hard-won Draco! And I'm glad you laughed, that's awesome. =3 My ultimate goal as an authoress is to make my readers laugh, cry and be turned on.

**Auriliayh**: Yours was my favourite review. I do hope you stalk me, that would be awesome. I worship your reviews like you say you worship my writing!

**Web Walker**: Thanks, I tried to make the way I portrayed Harry as unique. I didn't want him to be something obvious ... you know, IncrediblyDepressed!Harry or RebelliousAngry!Harry or LonelyNeedyVulnerable!Harry. I just wanted mine to be, ahh ... Multi-Faceted!Harry.

**Wolfgirl-Lupin**: You and I both do s! Thanks for liking it.

**Draco23Luver**: Mmm, I luve Draco too. I'm glad you like my idea ... I was worried it was kinda lame. =)

**Shyla-of-slytherin**: Your name is yummy. Yes, I AM evil and fucking awesome. -cuddles you-  
**  
vkay**: I'm glad it was funny and interesting! I try. =D

**Crysania Fay**: You laughed, yay! I'm so glaaad ...

**_And now the good part: the actual story! Whee!_**

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Hermione Granger was sitting stiffly in one of the plump Gryffindor common room armchairs, a huge spellbook spread across her lap, her eyes locked forcibly on the open pages. Her cheeks were burning a conspicuous crimson, although she was far from the heat of the fire; Crookshanks was rubbing his chin against her ankle worriedly.

Ron was sitting across from her, peering uncomfortably at her face. After a good quarter hour of staring and twitching, he finally gathered the courage to speak.

"Awe, come on Hermione, it couldn't have been all _that_ terrible .."

The spellbook slammed shut with a resounding smack.

"It was, Ron," she said icily, through firmly clenched teeth. "It was like kissing a corpse, for all that he put into it, and it was _Draco Malfoy_, the first and to my knowledge _only_ prat ever to deem me a _mudblood _to my face_."_

Ron frowned at this, a disgusted look on his face, as though he was disgruntled at having been reminded of the identity of said molester. Then, a moment later, a look of deeper repulsion crossed his face.

"Are you saying you would have preferred a _better_ snog from him?" he asked, looking both nauseated and severely irritated.

"I would have preferred _nothing at all_," Hermione answered slowly, gritting her teeth.

"You say that, but you're probably thinking inside, oh, how disappointing, he didn't use his tongue," Ron mocked, talking more to himself than the harassed girl near him. "It was probably some sick secret fantasy of yours."

"I cannot _believe_ you're accusing me of enjoying it!" she said loudly, rising immediately to her feet. "You only want to shift your guilt onto my shoulders, as well as express your own hidden insecurities! I bet you're _dying_ to know who I dream of snogging!"

"That has nothing to do with this!" he yelped, his face twisting in anger.

"It is _your fault_ that he kissed me, Ron, and I hope it haunts you until finals!" Hermione spat back, her eyes flashing. "I hope the regret follows you around like a vengeful ghost!"

"And I hope that .. that .. you eventually realize that I didn't _mean _for this to happen!" he replied loudly, though his voice was too heavy and held back to be angry.

"Please stop it, you guys," Harry interrupted, looking up from his Potions essay. Both Ron and Hermione turned to him, mouths open slightly. The latter immediately stepped toward him in slight desperation.

_"You_ at least sympathize with me, don't you?" Hermione asked, glancing at Ron briefly with furious intent in her eyes. "That I was forcibly kissed by that .. that .."

"Of course I do," Harry answered immediately, and it was true; the only thing that could have outdone Draco's contorted face of disgust during the brief kiss was that of Hermione.

Although, internally, a shadow of doubt churned uncomfortably in his stomach. When he applied the situation to himself, thought of his lips being molested by the conniving blond .. he hardly felt plagued by revulsion, nor felt sorry for himself. Instead, his head became lightheaded, as though conscious thoughts were being erased, replaced with a vague longing for ... what?

He shivered suddenly in his seat. It was only his body wanting the contact .. just his lonely, estranged body.

His sanity, naturally, completely hated the idea.

"... never felt so completely taken advantage of in my entire life, let alone disrespected and _used_, all to prove his own shallow point! Don't you think I was victimized by their stupid argument?"

"Huh?" Harry said, jerking himself from his thoughts. "Oh .. yeah, of course. They should've never dragged someone else into it."

"Yes, exactly!" Hermione loudly agreed, shooting Ron a dirty look. "Even if it hadn't been me to show up, it could have been some _other_ innocent girl!"

"True," Harry agreed, turning his eyes away just slightly, "Although, that girl might have enjoyed it more than you. He is rather attractive."

"Yes, it's ... what?" Hermione stuttered, her jaw slackening. "What did you just say about Malfoy?"

"You think he's _attractive_?" Ron gaped, leaning forward in his seat to stare openly, shocked, at his friend.

"Ehrm .. well," Harry mumbled uncomfortably. What the hell was he saying? He hadn't even been thinking that! "Don't the Slytherin girls all fancy him? Pansy follows him around like a lovesick puppy."

Hermione frowned, and Ron still looked a bit blown-over, but they both slowly nodded their heads in agreement.

"That's viable, I guess, a Slytherin girl not being angry about it," Hermione agreed reluctantly. "But that isn't the point here, the point is that in making a bet involving some _unknown, unknowing_ girl, well, that's just twisted to begin with .."

Harry sat back heavily in his seat, only half-listening as his friend raged on, indirectly insulting Ron as much as she could fit in. The free, lost part of his mind wandered, reconstructing the memory of the infamous kiss in his mind- he replayed the disgust, the shudders both of them experienced afterward, the cocky smile playing on Malfoy's flushed lips when he caught Ron's expression of horror ...

He blinked, shaking his head a bit. Why was it that when he thought of it, his thoughts focused not so much on the injustice of Hermione's being mildly molested, but rather on the desperation and disgust of Malfoy, on the fact that _him_ kissing _her_ looked and felt so wrong?

He tuned back into Hermione, deciding to avoid personally thinking about it on his own. It was an unbelievable situation; it was only natural that he didn't know what to think about it. It was just _wrong._

So very, very wrong. He shouldn't have kissed her.

He wasn't meant to kiss her.

"Harry?" Hermione asked suddenly, jarring him once again from his thoughts. "Are you even listening to me? What do you think?"

"I think," he whispered, blinking down over dark eyes, "That it should never have happened. It looked so wrong, it just ... makes me angry, that it even happened at all."

"Of course it does, Harry," she reassured. "I was just a pawn in some sick bet spawned from a ridiculous argument that I _told_ him to avoid in the first place!"

"I'm sitting right here, you know!" Ron snapped. "You can talk to _me_ about this, too!"

"And what, have you accuse me again of somehow _enjoying_ being assaulted?"

"No! I can't stand it when you complain to Harry about me when I'm _sitting five feet away from you_!"

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy, jet-black hair as his friends continued to bicker, the argument now shifted back to its rightful owners. He didn't want to think about the kiss any longer.

For some reason, it bothered him more than it should have. At least, it bothered him in the wrong sort of way. He wasn't furious at Malfoy for doing that to his friend.

He was angry that they'd kissed at all .. and he didn't want to think about why.

Blinking several times, he turned back to his Potions essay.

==============================================================

_"FUCK YOU_, Weasel!" Malfoy screamed, throwing his half-used bottle of _Chanel No. 5_ at the dormitory wall. It shattered loudly, leaving a damp, and rather fragrant stain.

Blaise, standing two beds away, cringed along with Pansy, who was sitting cross-legged on his mattress. Both watched with pale, worried faces as he tore through his huge mahogany trunk, destroying various contents.

"And these," Malfoy said quietly, picking up a glowing pair of dark green silk boxers. He threw them suddenly up into the air.

"BURN IN FUCKING HELL, Rita Skeeter!" he shouted, pointing his wand at the fluttering patch of green. In an instant, it burst into flame.

"But darling," Pansy protested meekly. "You had those tailored just for you!"

"I don't care, they remind me," Malfoy hissed at her, then went back to his trunk. He pulled out a glittering bottle of _Lady Del Fawna's New Triple Strength Hair-Lock Gel-Form Potion _and sent it soaring through the air, only to watch it explode in a cascade of black ash.

"But it looks so good spiked," she whined from the bed, looking desperately up at Blaise. He cleared his throat uncertainly.

"Draco, instead of destroying stuff, why don't you focus on punishing the arses that worked with Skeeter?" he asked tentatively. "Or, ahh, let's talk about how miserable Weasley is now, since you kissed the mudblood! He's probably crying his eyes out at this very fucking moment!"

"You think so?" Malfoy asked, mildly interested. "He fancies her that much? I knew it would piss him off, but .. mmm .. you think it fucked with his _heart_?"

He smiled at this, picturing a distraught Ron sobbing over huge photographs of Hermione, who was touching her lips and gasping over and over.

"Oh, definitely," Blaise said eagerly, pleased to see Malfoy distracted from his trunk. "The first kiss that _he_ wanted, _you_ stole. It'll torture him whether or not they get together in the end."

"Yeah, you really screwed him over, Drake," Pansy commented in a pleased voice from the bed.

Malfoy nodded to himself ... it _was_ satisfying to have put Weasley in severe mental pain.

Thinking of that, however, brought to light by contrast that which had not worked, had not satisfied him. In fact, although it hadn't really been on his mind when he'd decided to kiss Granger, he had been hoping that it would piss off Potter as well. He'd expected him to be furious that he had crossed one of his precious friends.

He hadn't been furious. He had been ... _intrigued._

Instead of being pissed off as would usually be expected, he'd been annoyingly calm, blowing off the big picture of him messing with Granger and focusing instead on how he had looked disgusted while doing it. Why had he even been _watching_ him that closely?

And then he'd stared at him. Not hexed him, not punched him, _stared_ at him up and down with no explanation at all, and then he had _fucking walked away._

"No," Malfoy growled lowly.

"No what?" Blaise asked, frowning.

"No, that isn't good enough," he answered slowly. "Fucking with the Weasel's head isn't enough. I need to get to Potter as well. This game isn't bloody well over yet."

Blaise and Pansy looked at one another, unsure of what to make of this. It sounded a bit psychotic to them, yes, but a Draco Malfoy with twisted thoughts was far better than a Malfoy that was compulsively destroying expensive grooming items.

"What are you doing to do?" Pansy asked at last, frowning curiously at the dancing smirk on his lips.

"I'm going to piss him off until he snaps," Malfoy purred, "And then attack when his defense is down."

"Oh, a classic," Blaise approved with a grin. Malfoy nodded distractedly.

No victory was a true win until it left Potter completely out of his already fucked-up mind.

"Pansy," he ordered, already contemplating the plan in his mind, "_Reparo_ my _Hair-Lock_, won't you? I got that shit in Italy."

"Of course, dear," Pansy replied sweetly, her lips curled. Malfoy grinned slyly to himself, ignoring her.

_I'll have my way with Potter if it's the last fucking thing I do._

Whee! Another day, another chapter! I kinda liked this one, actually. Not a lot of action at all, but lots of twisted thinking. =3 I can't wait until I can make them actually interact again ... mmm ... well, anyhoo, it's reviewing time again! Click the button if you love your authoress, who already loves _you_ for reading! _Au revior_ for now ...


	4. Breakfast With Gryffindors

_ - Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Warnings**: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

==================================================

_Getting Potter proved to be more difficult than originally planned._

Harry raised a curious eyebrow as he, by chance, caught sight of Malfoy walking in through the doors to the Great Hall. He was wearing full black, as usual, his Slytherin robes sweeping elegantly behind him, his hair gleaming with perfection. Still, a nagging voice in Harry's mind thought something seemed different about him. He studied him more closely: maybe it was the way he was smirking, as if eternally amused.

Yes, that had to be it. Malfoy typically walked into breakfast with a scowl at having to be awake at all.

Satisfied with his deduction, Harry shrugged the smirk off, lifting his goblet of pumpkin juice to his lips. After all, what did he care about the morning mood swings of his worst enemy? It wasn't worth his attention at all, he thought vaguely, letting his eyes trail lazily after Malfoy as he made his way toward his House table.

But then, suddenly, he stopped mid-stride, his robes settling about him. Harry paused, letting his pumpkin juice sink below his tongue. He watched, slightly wary, as he ran a careful hand through his pale hair, surveying the Great Hall as if thinking on what to do.

He blinked, and then, suddenly, turned his gaze to meet Harry's eyes, which immediately widened at the unexpected connection. Malfoy's smirk blazed on, unaltered, eager.

'What the hell?' Harry thought. 'What's he doing, just standing there? Go sit down at your table, you haughty, presumptuous prick!'

Just as he thought this, as if on mental command, Malfoy turned sharply on his heel and began walking toward his House table.

_His_ House table.

"Is Malfoy heading this way?" asked Ron weakly, blood draining from his face as he watched said enemy approach, an amused, yet deadly glint in his silver eyes. "Ehrm ..."

"What's that, Ron?" Hermione questioned, looking up from her plate of eggs and Charms textbook. She turned toward the approaching boy as well, and then immediately began to blush.

"That git!" Ron muttered sourly. "What does he think he's doing? How dare he show his face after what he did yesterday!"

"The question is more like, how could he stay away, not gloating for so long after what he did yesterday," Harry said darkly, his eyes locked on the Slytherin, who had now nearly reached the table. His voice was detached, as though he were speaking more to himself than to his companions.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, Granger? Weasley?" Malfoy greeted mockingly, slipping casually down next to Hermione, who immediately bristled. Ron, seated on her opposite side, scowled in fury, dropping his fork with a loud clatter.

"What are you doing over here?" Ron spat menacingly. "Get back to your own table!"

"My my, Weasley, are you _always_ this foul in the morning?" Malfoy replied easily, reaching out and grabbing a thick slice of golden toast, which he immediately began to butter. "Didn't sleep well last night?"

"You didn't answer my question," Ron commanded lowly, eying Malfoy beyond Hermione's head with obvious distaste. Hermione, caught between the two and sporting cheeks the color of tomatoes, gritted her teeth silently.

"If you must know, Weasel," Malfoy replied, taking a dainty bite, "I came over here to greet Granger, whom I thought must be missing me immensely by now."

Hermione frowned in disgust at this, picking up her goblet of pumpkin juice with a loud 'hmph'.

"If you think you can just stroll over here and harass me further," she said warningly, "You are terribly mistaken!"

"Oh really, am I?" Malfoy replied, rather playfully. "Because you look rather harassed right now. I think I _can_ after all."

He smirked royally, taking a second bite of his toast. Hermione's lips twisted downward, her eyes piercing a glare deep into his infuriating, insufferable, impenetrable soul.

"Go back to your rightful table!" she snapped desperately, "Now!"

And without any further argument, she overturned her full goblet of pumpkin juice completely, letting the contents dump into Malfoy's lap.

As she looked on, her arm frozen in mid-air, Malfoy looked down at himself, frowning slightly.

He looked up a moment later, looking, to Hermione's utter shock and horror, rather pleased.

"It's a good thing that these pants have an anti-staining charm," he explained smugly. "Just look."

He wiped the pumpkin juice away easily, casting it away in a shower of liquid beads onto the floor.

Hermione looked as though her head were about to implode. Ron, next to her, recognized that look and visibly cringed.

_"Draco Malfoy_, if you don't leave this table _right now_, I swear to Merlin that I—"

"Potter, you've been rather quiet," Malfoy said suddenly, deciding to ignore Hermione completely. She stuttered for a moment, her mouth open slightly, and then slammed her goblet down loudly on the table.

"I don't have anything to say to you," Harry said quietly in response. He was sitting next to Ron, thus two seats away from Malfoy; he needed to lean far over in order to speak with him at all. In front of him lay a half-eaten blueberry muffin, and with that, his unfinished Potions essay from the night before.

He glared at Malfoy uneasily, his green eyes glowing. He had been listening carefully the entire time, studying his enemy, trying to rationalize why he was focusing more energy into pissing off Hermione and Ron than himself, why he had been essentially ignoring him up until now.

"Not even a cheery 'Good morning,' for me?" Malfoy asked with mock innocence. Harry scowled, dropping his quill.

"Hermione's right," he hissed. "You should go back to your own table. Pansy and Blaise are probably out of their minds with worry."

At this, Malfoy turned to face his House table, eying the empty patch of space he typically occupied. He lifted a hand in greeting, grinning when Pansy looked up from her pancakes and waved wildly, smirking, back at him.

"It's funny, but somehow I don't think they mind," Malfoy commented dryly. "I see you're doing the Potions essay we were assigned yesterday. You do realize that it's not worth the effort of actual writing ... it'll undoubtedly end up a fail, anyway .. why not just turn it in blank instead? Then you could savor the rest of that muffin."

Harry twitched, watching the silver eyes of the Slytherin laugh with mirth. He had other things he wanted to savor, like twisting his hands into the other boy's smooth, pale throat.

"Either that or I could finish it for you," Malfoy continued, when Harry did not comment further.

"Sure," Harry said lowly, his eyes following his enemy's hand as it reached out, snatching the half-eaten blueberry muffin. "Why are you here, honestly? You could have tormented us in the halls if you had wanted to. Either you're incredibly impatient or you have some kind of alternative motive."

"Alternative motive?" Malfoy gasped, taking a bite of Harry's muffin. "Other than enjoying an early meal with the most amusing arses in the school? I'm shocked you would insinuate such a thing."

"Just tell us why you're here," Ron snapped, wishing he could set the muffin ablaze just as Malfoy sunk it into his mouth.

"Well," Malfoy said slowly, considering, "Not that it's really _any_ of your business, but, I happen to be needing a new perspective on my Slytherin comrades. I thought that coming over here would, mmm, kill two birds with one stone."

"A new perspective?" Ron spat back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

But Malfoy was again ignoring him, his eyes staring directly at the Slytherin table and snaking down it slowly.

"Pansy and Blaise .." he said to himself, watching them laugh together, both eating their breakfasts distractedly. "No, they've been with me the entire time, shown nothing but confusion and neutrality.. I doubt it was them .."

"Stop talking to yourself!" Hermione snapped irately. "What are you going on about?"

"Crabbe and Goyle, old minions .." Malfoy continued quietly. Said pair were both wolfing down huge plates of food, laughing only between massive mouthfuls. Malfoy tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

He pointed his wand, chuckling to himself when a large platter of sausages in front of them suddenly transfigured into a hoard of bats. They yelped and looked around wildly for the caster, their huge faces pale and frightened.

"Too bloody stupid," Malfoy commented dryly to himself. 'Mmm, who could it be, then .."

"Are you trying to pick out the people that sold your secret to the _Prophet_?" Harry asked mildly, raising an eyebrow as the bats flew in unison toward the Head Table.

"Why yes, I am," Malfoy said, turning to Harry slowly. "And for your knowledge, Potter, said future corpses did not sell my _secret_ to that _fucking shithole_ of a news organization. I am not _gay_, therefore it was never a secret at all."

"Right then," Harry replied easily, smirking when Malfoy jerked angrily at his sarcasm.

"Class is starting soon," a disgruntled Hermione suddenly announced, shoving away her food, slamming closed her textbook and standing. "Ron, Harry .. let's go."

She sent a long, lingering death glare to Malfoy, who laughed under his breath and took another bite of his stolen muffin.

"Write me a hot, lusty love note, Granger," he mocked, his platinum hair gleaming in the light.

"I'll write out a restraining order is what I'll write!" she snapped, staring down at him furiously. "If you ever come to harass us at breakfast again, _I will speak to Professor McGonagall_!"

"Oh no, not Miss Kitty," Malfoy snapped back as Hermione bristled in horror. "Aren't you a big fan of _Hogwarts: A History_, mudblood? You may remember that over the centuries, headmasters have avoided creating rules that formally prevent amiable interaction between Houses. I can eat breakfast with you _every fucking day_ if I want to."

"This is hardly amiable interaction, Malfoy," Hermione barked hoarsely. "You came over here today to torment _me_ and _Ron_ and _Harry_, not have a casual conversation!"

"Oh, but did I hex you?" Malfoy replied easily. "Did I bitch-slap you? Did I pour a bottle of ink over the top of your over-inflated, brainy head? Because it seems to me that, from the view of the Head Table, I was a _fucking_ _angel_ who only wanted a muffin and a morning word."

"Would you stop swearing!" Hermione shrieked, frowning miserably. "I mean it, Malfoy! You can't do this everyday!"

"Oh, but it's so much fun," Malfoy replied silkily, taking his books from the table and standing. "Didn't we have fun, Potter?"

"A conversation with you, _fun_?" Harry pondered loudly, turning his dark, irate eyes up to glare at his enemy. He had been listening to the argument the entire time, his pulse steadily growing faster. "I guess you could call it that, if having bleeding ears is _fun_."

"You'll have more than bleeding _ears_ when I'm through having fun with you, Potter," Malfoy snarled. "Perhaps we should continue our conversation later, and elsewhere."

Harry smirked, pleased. This was what he had been waiting for. The invite, the challenge, the familiar, safe, predictable duel between enemies.

"Meet me in front of the Whomping Willow during lunch," he responded eagerly, feeling his blood already begin to burn, exhilarating him. "Don't be late."

"You can count on me to be punctual for this, Potter," Malfoy said, a smirk of self-satisfaction curving his smooth, moist lips. "I'll see you later."

Harry nodded, returning Draco's ice cold, liquid silver gaze for a moment before the other boy scoffed, amused, and turned on his black leather heel, walking away toward his first class.

Hermione and Ron remained standing there, staring at Harry in slight shock.

"Are you sure that was a good move, mate?" Ron asked tentatively. "You sure you want to risk a fight? It would suck to get in trouble this early in the year."

"That's true, Harry," Hermione agreed warily. "Look, I know that you want to protect me, but you don't have to .."

"I know," Harry responded quietly. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for me and trust me, it'll be worth it."

Hermione's jaw slackened, though she said nothing, only staring with Ron at her side as Harry stood, putting away his Potions essay, a very familiar smirk on his face, a smirk that matched the glint of anticipation in his eyes.

_Right_, Harry thought readily. _I'll get Malfoy if it's the last fucking thing I do!  
_

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I am so clever, aren't I? I didn't quite know how to end it, I just wanted emphasize that their thoughts are parallel. So! Did you like it? I really enjoyed writing this chapter; dialogue is really my best area, I think. Action, meh, but lemon and dialogue, whee! They will be 'confronting' each other in the next chapter, and a deal shall be forged.

If you liked it, please review! Anyone can now, since I changed my settings -incoherent mumbling- .. damn you, , for making the refusal of non-signed reviews default! Anyway. Much love to all, and review if you liked this chapter/want more soon/hate it and must flame.


	5. Dealing With Malfoy

_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Authoress Ramble**: My life is stagnating, miserable and insatiable, just like my favorite character to portray through words. It isn't such a coincidence, I suppose. I hope that you enjoy my writing.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

** Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

==================================================

Harry sat patiently on the cool November grass of the Hogwarts' grounds, his legs sprawled unceremoniously beneath him. He took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His nervous eyes gleamed the color of sea glass in the murky noon sun.

Ron and Hermione had tried their best to convince him not to come, told him that it wasn't worth being hurt or getting in trouble, just for a quick fight. Ron had even suggested that it would piss Malfoy off more if he didn't show than if he did and tried, but Harry had shrugged him off.

Somehow, he didn't think that was what this was about.

The enmity between the two of them seemed different now. Malfoy had been put in a situation he'd probably never had to deal with, Harry knew, and it was a situation he knew well. The Daily Prophet had published countless articles detailing what kind of person Harry was expected to be and to become: he was the brave, eager hero, willing to give up his life in the blink of an eye to save the Wizarding world. He was an attention-seeker, a lover of limelight, though in reality he'd gradually grown farther and farther from his friends.

The only difference between his publicity and this new article involving Malfoy was that he, Harry, felt pressured to live up to the hero assumption, and Malfoy was fighting desperately not to be thought of as queer.

'That's probably why he chose to kiss Hermione,' Harry thought weakly to himself. 'To divert attention from the article. And this morning ... yeah. He wants the attention he'd been getting from just being an arse back, to replace the attention people are giving him when they gossip about his sexuality.'

The castle had indeed been buzzing since yesterday morning's article; everywhere he turned, he heard snipets of conversation detailing Malfoy's name, discussing the kinds of clothes he wore, the way he'd never really _seen_ any girl, despite sleeping around with several. Harry tried his best to tune it out; hearing others gossip about someone's sexuality, even Malfoy's, disgusted him.

It also scared him.

Even if Malfoy _wasn't_ gay, he was still currently living what Harry considered one of his worst nightmares. He knew that if the entire school found about _his_ sexuality from a newspaper article that revealed the news to the entire world, he would die. He would draw his bedcurtains, curl up into a tight ball of misery, and die.

In that way, Harry felt slightly sorry for his enemy.

"Afternoon, Potter," a voice drawled.

Harry looked up calmly, having been expecting it. Standing above him, several feet away, was Draco Malfoy, the cool November wind tousling his short, sculpted- yet somehow still silky and bendable- pale tresses.

"They had you pinned with the hair concept, you have to admit that," Harry said with a distant smile.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "I am so bloody _fucking_ sick of hearing about that damned article. As soon as my father owls me back, assuming he hasn't disowned me out of shame at this point, I'm having him hire the best fucking lawyer money can buy. The Daily-_Fucking_-Prophet is going to be paying out of its sorry arse until my coffin is full to bursting with gold."

"You swear too fucking much," Harry said lightly, standing.

"Aren't you cute," Malfoy replied with a sneer. "It was a good move mentioning the article, though, before we dueled; now I'm pissed as fuck. You'll get to deal with the best of me, Potter."

"That's fitting, seeing as I already get to play with the worst," Harry replied simply. He drew his wand from his pocket; and then, simply, threw it aside.

"What the hell are you doing?" Malfoy gasped, staring at Harry's wand, now lying useless in the thick, shuffling grass of the lawn.

"I want this fight to be a bit more personal than that," Harry answered, cocking his head lightly to the side. "What's wrong, Drake? Afraid you'll mess up your hair?"

"Don't you dare call me that," Malfoy snapped. "Pansy calls me that, for fuck's sake, and I only take it from her because ... well ... fuck you, fine, no wands then."

He threw his passionately aside.

"Because she's your girlfriend?" Harry taunted, grinding his feet eagerly into the ground.

"No," Malfoy answered sourly, looking at his hands uncomfortably. _No wands? _

"Your worthless lover?" Harry ventured, grinning a bit.

"Don't call Pansy a whore in front of me," Malfoy growled. "Even if she is, I'll be damned if she's to be called that to my face. That gossiping wench is my-"

"Your friend, how sweet," Harry finished for him, letting his fingers curl into tight fists.

"Let's just get this over with, Potter," Malfoy snapped, rolling his eyes a bit before clenching his own fists and then, almost immediately, reaching out to punch Harry hard in the jaw.

Harry reeled back, surprised. He hadn't expected Malfoy to have any skill with his delicate-looking, manicured hands; the blow had been uncouthly hard.

Malfoy made for another swing, this time aiming for the other side of Harry's jaw. He saw the move before it came, luckily, and blocked Malfoy's arm, sinking his fist deeply into his opponent's stomach while his arm was still frozen in the air.

Malfoy gagged, leaning far over and paling before stepping backwards. Harry waited patiently, arms up and ready, until the boy recovered, then lunged for his face.

He hit the other boy hard, his knuckles bruising the pale skin of his cheek and hitting his nose from the side, causing a stream of blood to begin to trickle down from it. Malfoy retaliated by scowling and hooking his calve behind Harry's knee, sweeping his feet from under him.

Harry hit the ground hard, back first, head second; he groaned with pain, lights dancing in his eyes. When he opened them, he saw Malfoy's coy smirk not more than a foot above his face. He then realized that a pair of legs were gripping his waist, pinning him down; he winced when Malfoy easily punched his face, splitting his lip.

"You're right, Potter," Malfoy said shrewdly as he pinned both of Harry's wrists to the grass-covered dirt, "This is much, much more fun."

He reached out his pale hand to the right, groping in the grass until, with a triumphant, twisted grin, he withdrew it, his wand clasped tightly in his fist.

"Oh, fuck," Harry moaned. He took the opportunity of having one arm free to struggle wildly, only to be punched again, this time harder. Malfoy uttered a quick incantation, and in an instant, his wrists were fastened together, high above his head, by a tight length of rope.

"I think I've won," Malfoy spoke silkily above him, smiling wickedly.

"Fucking hell," Harry cursed, twisting his wrists to no avail. "You fucking cheater! _No wands_!"

"I had you beaten _before_ I retrieved my wand, admit it," Malfoy explained leisurely. He lowered the tip of his wand, nudging it gently on the very top of Harry's nose.

"What _should_ I cast on you?" he pondered lazily, his smile widening as he noticed that beads of sweat were steadily forming on his captive's forehead. "Should I transfigure you into a dirty old mouse and put you in Severus' desk drawer? I heard that he hates it when mice shit on his parchment ... I doubt he'd let you live long .."

"What? No!" Harry yelped grimly, cringing.

"Or I could make you into a naked portrait, and hang you in the Slytherin common room," Malfoy considered thoughtfully.

"You can do that?" Harry asked meekly, watching as the boy above him raised an eyebrow, shrugging as though disinterested.

_"Or_ I could make you puke out the entrails of a rotten, deceased goat for a solid week," Malfoy grinned, turning his eyes back down to him. Harry twitched violently; by the glint in the other boy's eyes, he could definitely pull off that curse.

He nudged the wand, poking Harry's nose.

"Well, what will it be then?" Malfoy asked, looking down at him almost curiously. Harry shook his head wildly, cringing.

"Oh?" Malfoy asked, as if he had just answered. "Well then, the nude portrait it is!"

He poked Harry's nose again, his lips twisting sinfully upward.

"Wait!" Harry cried suddenly, his eyes widening. "Wait, _stop!_ I .. I want to make a deal with you!"

"A deal?" Malfoy repeated, looking honestly surprised. He withdrew his wand an inch, releasing Harry's violated nose.

"Yes," Harry stuttered. In truth, he had no deal in mind, but it had seemed an excellent escape plan just moments before: Malfoy could refuse no offer that could in the end benefit him. "Yes, ehrm ... I propose that ... uhh, well .."

"Spit it out, Potter," Malfoy hissed threateningly, impatient.

"I'll show you how to act _really_ _fucking_ _straight_!" Harry spat, flushing considerably. "No one will find reason to question it again! And ... yeah!"

Malfoy raised an elegant eyebrow, looking interested, but still highly skeptical.

"Oh really, how kind of you," he said in a low voice. "And what's in it for you, Potter? Other than, of course, the immediate continuance of your life."

"Ehrm," Harry choked. "You could tutor me in Potions?"

Malfoy sneered down at him, amused, and Harry flushed further. It was lame, he knew, and to be blunt, pathetic. In all honesty, though, he did need it .. he _was_ failing, and Malfoy knew it perfectly well. It was at least a coherent, sensible lie.

"I need it to continue onto Auror training after school. I can't fail," Harry added meekly. Who the fuck was he kidding? Malfoy didn't need him to show him how to act stereotypically heterosexual, and he certainly would never agree to _tutor_ him in any subject. The idea in itself was worthy of ridicule.

Fortunately, Harry had unestimated the importance of pride to Malfoy. He was desperate to regain his former reign as Unquestioned Ice Prince. That and, strangely enough ... he was intrigued.

"Fine, Potter," Malfoy said quietly. "It's a deal. I'll agree, but only under a few simple conditions."

Harry stared up at him blankly, stunned: he was willing to do it?

He hadn't been expecting that.

"Firstly," Malfoy drawled, ignoring his stare of shock, "I will tutor you using _whatever_ teaching methods I deem acceptable. Secondly, you will not do _anything_ in my presence in regard to .. instructing me that I find repulsive or demeaning and thirdly, and most importantly, if you tell _anyone_ we've made his deal, I will sneak into your dorm, lock you behind your bedcurtains and set the entire fucking bed on _fire._"

"Right," Harry agreed. "I .. I set the same terms toward you."

"You talk like such a pussy when you're helpless, Potter, Malfoy said, sighing. In a flick of his wrist, the ropes disappeared; Harry shifted his arms to his sides gratefully, sitting up.

Malfoy hadn't moved, bringing the two nearly nose to nose; as Harry raised his knees automatically, it became immediately obvious that his enemy was now sitting on his lap.

Still, for a long second, neither moved, silver gazing unblinkingly into deep green, as if daring the latter to admit the situation.

Then, in a sudden moment, Malfoy somehow managed to topple gracefully to his side, off of Harry's lap and onto the soft grass. He stood immediately, brushing his black robe and clothing off wildly. Harry, his heart beating strangely fast, stood a second later.

"So," he said, smiling unknowingly at the frantic way Malfoy was tidying himself, completely avoiding looking Harry in the face, "When do we meet for this?"

"Fuck if I care, "Malfoy snapped, finally looking up after picking eight blades of grass off his black sweater. "Late is probably best. And I refuse to go anywhere _near_ the bloody Gryffindor quarters."

"I could meet you in the dungeons," Harry stated simply, silently thanking Moony, Padfoot and Prongs for their glorious, 2-D treasure.

"You know your way around them?" Malfoy sneered, incredulous. Harry nodded, unfazed, and shrugged.

"Fine then," he continued. "Meet me in the room three doors down from Snape's office. If you just open it, you'll see a closet filled with old brooms and shit, but if you tap on the door with your wand first and say, _'Biddeus Ouvriri_' it'll open to a pretty decent room. Tomorrow night, at ten."

"We're meeting in a _broomcloset_?" Harry gasped, his eyes widening slightly.

"No, I just fucking explained what it is!" Malfoy snarled. "Just be there, all right?"

"Sure," Harry nodded, slightly bewildered by the blonde's temper.

"Good," Malfoy mumbled. "Oh, and Potter?"

"Hmm?" Harry asked, blinking slowly.

"You blushed when I used that rope charm on you," Malfoy said slowly, his silver eyes glinting with twisted amusement. "Care to explain that one?"

"Uhh," Harry stuttered, feeling his stomach drop sharply. "It .. it reminded me of a night I spent with, uhh .. err, that is .."

"The Cho girl?" Malfoy spat distastefully. Harry nodded immediately, glad for the answer put so easily into his mouth.

"I bet you begged long and hard for that one," he sneered, amused to be thinking of a submissive Harry. He ran a hand back through his hair, adjusting it perfectly.

_'Hah, Potter in bed with that emotional sponge of a girl,' _Malfoy thought. _'His hands tied to the bedposts .. completely nude and helpless .. yes, whimpering while she ran her hands down his body, while he begged for it .. feeling his skin under my hands ..'_

_'Under my hands? No, fuck, her hands ... her filthy hands .. wait ... yes, hers. What the hell am I thinking? Damn, Draco, he must have punched you too hard after all .. your mind is just still dwelling on the fight .. which you won .. hmm, always satisfying ..'_

"Malfoy?" Harry asked aloud a moment later, his jaw slightly agape.

He snapped from his thoughts immediately, looking up into Harry's confused green eyes. He stared at him for a second, feeling oddly flustered, and then scowled, going back to brushing invisible particles away from his dark clothing.

"What the fuck are you staring at, Potter?" he snarled, finally finding a piece of grass near his waist.

"Nothing," Harry answered honestly. "Look, lunch is ending soon .. I'm going back inside."

"Me too, of course," Malfoy mumbled sourly. He looked Harry over a final time, making sure to frown distastefully as he did so, and then spun elegantly around, his black robes swirling at his feet.

Both boys began to make their way back to the castle, though the darker boy walked considerably faster than the other, who lagged uncomfortably behind, watching the first.

Harry's stomach felt twisted, his chest tight; he sighed when he knew the other boy was too far away to hear him.

What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

_'Leave it to me_,' Harry thought miserably, _'To bite off more than I can chew.'_

He shook his head, shaking his deeper thoughts free. If he could hardly understand him, how was he supposed to _help _him? And without pissing him off to the point of being cursed or killed, for that matter?

And what he'd said about the ropes .. he hadn't even noticed that he'd ...

Harry shook his head a second time, blinking his eyes as he did so. It was actually a bit amusing, if you thought on it long enough.

It was bizarrely ironic that he, of all people, was going to teach Malfoy how to act unquestionably _straight_, when he himself was .. to be fully honest .. not so clear on the idea himself.

Walking back to the castle, whether from ironic amusement or something else, Harry found himself smiling.

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I'm rather sad ... I'm not sure if that affected my writing at all, I don't believe it did. In any case, I hope that you are all well, and that you enjoyed reading this new chapter as much as I enjoying writing it. Take care, my loves, and please review if you want more soon.


	6. Of Roses and Oral Rape

_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_

**Authoress Ramble**: I've been so tired lately, it's ridiculous. I can't wait until my school lets out ... I need the rest ... sigh. My back hurts too, because I collapsed on the couch ... heh. And, I miss my lover ... so much ... and ... and ... mmm. At least I can still write.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated 'R' for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

** Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

==================================================

Draco Malfoy sat calmly at his own table, eating his blueberry Danish with long, elegant fingers. Beams of sunlight were flickering above him, originating from the high shadows of the Great Hall ceiling. He took a tiny bite.

Today, he sensed, was going to be a good day. Such a sinfully good day.

In fifteen hours, after all, he'd be meeting Potter. It was a new experience for the blonde, the _anticipation_ of a confrontation. In the past, they'd always just seemed to find each other unexpectedly, just bump into one another in the halls, or in Hogsmeade, or whatever the case may be ... and from there, their arguments and fiery, hate-filled confrontations had just ... _happened._

But now, Draco found himself having the chance to mull over the future in his head. Would this whole deal thing fall through, their meeting reduced to a typical brawl never again to be planned and repeated? Or would Potter actually come through with something he could use to his benefit?

_He'd better_, Draco thought icily, eying the other boy from across the Hall, watching him move his sunny side eggs around in circular patterns on his plate.

As far as tutoring the Boy Who Lived ... well.

_He's hopeless to begin with_, Draco thought dully. _If I can't help the prat, he's just destined to fail, in which case my instruction would have failed him either way._

Leaning back in his seat, feeling rather confident in the future of his 'good' day, Draco smiled a twisted smile. He took another nibble of his Danish, relishing the tiny burst of sweetness.

And at that moment, a series of short screeches filled the air above him. Draco looked up; flying in were the first few owls of the morning post. He grinned sadistically, watching as one with an especially large load swooped low toward the Gryffindor table.

Oh, yes. _Such_ a good day.

The infamous Gryffindor trio was seated as usual in their places, Hermione on the left, a two-and-a-half foot Transfiguration essay sprawled across her area, its start curled around a large bowl of muffins. Ron was seated next to her, munching contentedly on steaming bacon, and next to him, Harry, who was, instead of eating, focusing on writing his name in the runny bath of eggs he'd ruined on his plate.

He hadn't told either of his friends about his meeting with Malfoy that night. He knew that they would attempt to stop him, and if not that, they would follow him ... and he didn't want them to know, to find out.

He wanted this to be their secret, somehow.

He looked up, searching the Hall with bright green eyes. He found his target easily, his platinum blonde hair glimmering in the shifting rays of morning sun. He was eating a Danish pastry like a king, holding it at his side like a septor, taking tiny bites that barely required chewing.

He met Harry's eyes suddenly, the silver flashing in unison with his hair. Harry's green orbs widened, surprised, and he quickly looked back down at his food.

Would they really be able to get through this without killing one another?

As far as Harry was concerned, he'd gotten the short end of the stick when it came to the deal. Malfoy having to teach him Potions was a relatively simple task- granted, it didn't come to him well, but still, you couldn't really go wrong with teaching a standard subject.

His challenge was much, much more complicated. He needed to show Malfoy why everyone thought he was gay and convince him to change said things _without_ insulting him or pissing him off. It reminded Harry of a Muggle game that he'd played sometimes, lonely at the Dursley house. It involved building a tall tower of blocks, and then, one by one, removing the wooden rectangles. You lost the game when the tower inevitably tumbled over.

He was probably going to be dead before dawn.

"Hey, look at that," Ron said suddenly, between huge munches. He pointed, a slice of bacon in his hand, at a large grey-black owl flying directly for the Gryffindor table. Clenched in its huge claws was an overflowing bouquet of roses; a stream of red petals followed the bird as it flew through the Hall.

Harry raised an eyebrow, watching the huge bird coming toward them.

"It's probably for you, Harry," Hermione commented from behind her quill, her voice blank. It was true- he _was_ the famous Harry Potter. The roses were probably from some kind of secret admirer.

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table just in time to see Malfoy pointing out the flower-bearing owl to Pansy and Blaise, both of which were cracking up over their plates of food.

Today was _not_ a good day, Harry thought miserably, a sinking feeling in his empty stomach.

The bird carrying the roses had reached the table, soaring low over its inhabitants. Harry watched, downhearted, as the bird sped toward his seat.

His eyes widened in shock when the bird hooted, flying straight past him, zooming over Ron's plate to stop abruptly just above Hermione's bent head.

It opened its claws, dropping the huge bouquet of roses directly onto her long Transfiguration essay. Hermione yelped, dropping her quill as a few free rose petals flew around her face.

"They're for you, 'Mione," Ron said, a definite hint of sorrow in his voice. He frowned, turning to Harry sourly, as if it were his fault that the roses were not his own.

Hermione was staring in shock at the red, blooming bundle, her jaw dropped.

"Ron," she said, slowly turning her head, her cheeks pink, "Are these ... from you?"

Her wide chocolate eyes were shining fondly with caramel-colored hope. Ron stared back at her, his own cheeks turning red as he struggled to speak.

"Ehrm," he began meekly. "Well, uhm, 'Mione, I would have because I, that is-"

"There's a card," Harry said, interrupting his friend. He pointed to a sealed white envelope attached to the roses with his fork, dropping his hand when Ron elbowed him rudely in the side.

Hermione didn't notice; she was too wrapped up in opening the envelope labeled 'Granger' in shimmering red ink.

She smiled at Ron warmly as she pulled out the letter, forcing him to look away, an expression torn between misery and anger marring his face.

"It says," Hermione began in a low voice, reading it so that only her two best friends could hear her:

_ Dear Miss Granger -_

My thoughts have been haunted with memories of your pink chapped lips. To express to you the incredible lust I feel for your average, yet filthy mudblood body, I have compiled for you a list of the things I want to do in order to pleasure your FEMALE self using only a broomstick and a lubrication charm (attached).

With sincere disrespect,

Draco Malfoy

P.S. Did you get misinformed lessons from Weasley, or were you just new?

Hermione gasped in horror, letting the letter, and its attached list, flutter lifelessly to the table, where they sat conspicuously atop the red roses.

Her cheeks were burning, her eyes moist when she turned desperately to Harry, whose own jaw was dropped, his food art long forgotten.

"Why can't he just let it go?" she whispered to him, tears falling heavily from her eyes. _"Why_? Why does he have to torture me like this?"

"He just needs the attention," Harry answered, his heart lurching at the sight of one of his best friends, usually so calm and in control, crying in front of everyone. "Don't let it get to you, Hermione, he's just-"

"Stop justifying him!" Hermione snapped, sniffling loudly. "He's such a _sick bastard_! I can't believe he ... _he_ ... _look at him!"_

Harry's head snapped to the Slytherin table, and saw that it was true. Draco Malfoy was laughing with his friends, pointing at Hermione rather openly. He stopped for a moment when he saw Harry's icy stare.

"_Accio rose_," Malfoy whispered under his breath. Hermione's swollen, wet eyes widened further as she watched one of her roses rise and fly across the Hall, straight into his pale, outstretched hand.

Malfoy took the rose and, without breaking his gaze with Harry, handed it off to Pansy, who giggled and kissed him playfully on the cheek. Something in the green-eyed boy's chest twinged, and he looked away.

"Hermione," Ron said, touching her arm tentatively. "Please, don't cry. Not over .. over _him._ Harry and I will make sure that he gets his, won't we, Harry?"

"Huh?" Harry said, jolting his mind away from the triumphant blond. "Yeah, that's right, 'Mione. I'll talk to him about this."

"Yes, Harry will ... ehh? "Ron began, gasping at this. "ou'll _talk with him_ about this? What about _hexing him_ to Hell and back? Herm', he won't be able to pee for a week when I'm through with him."

"I know you're trying, Ron, but this isn't making me feel any better," Hermione whispered miserably. She reached out, freeing tears from her eyes as she blinked, and took the roses into her arms. Quickly, she stood.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, his voice strained with worry.

"The library," she choked, giving painful looks to both boys. "I'll see you two in class."

"Right .." Ron began, but Hermione had already spun around, humiliated by her tears. She took a few steps forward, but had barely gone five feet when she began to run, sprinting toward the Great Hall doors in a tearful fury.

As she was just passing through them, she collided roughly with someone just coming in for breakfast. He grunted in anger, looked down at her sternly.

"I'm sorry," she choked, shoving the roses into his arms. "Please, burn these for me! That prat! That _horrible, perverted, twisted prick!"_

And at this she burst into tears, continuing her run to the library without having even looked him in the face.

Snape's eyes followed her warily, and when she had disappeared, he looked down at the huge bundle of roses in his arms, turning up his nose slightly.

"Emotional teenagers," he mumbled to himself, shaking his head. He continued on his way to breakfast, roses in arm.

Back at the Gryffindor table, Ron was staring down into his plate of unfinished food, refusing to eat anything as he sulked over Hermione's pain. Harry was patting him awkwardly on the back, not entirely sure what to say. After all, his attempt to comfort Hermione had been a complete and total failure.

Had he really been justifying the prat for doing this?

Harry shook his head sadly, not wanting to explore that thought, not wanting to dwell on anything. He sighed, reaching out to pocket the letters, planning to throw them into the common room fire as soon as he could.

He overturned them, folding them into smaller rectangles, when he noticed something strange. He unfolded the list, his jaw loosening slightly.

There was a note on the back of it.

_Potter -_

This ink is charmed so that only a male can read it. My father uses it to keep things from my mother - in any case. I figured the Weasel would be too miserable to touch this.

I hope that your ideas for emphasizing my heterosexuality to the public are healthier than the fun I've been having with Granger's mind. Perhaps if yours prevail, I'll be able to leave her be about that fucking kiss.

That in mind, if you still want to meet tonight, kiss your hand.

- Granger's Oral Rapist

Harry stared at the note for several long seconds, incredulous. He wasn't sure what to think about this - how could he feel so neutral about Malfoy hurting one of his best friends? No - _both_ of his best friends?

Still ... he knew, no matter what the reason, his answer.

As Ron mumbled sorrowfully down into his breakfast, Harry raised his hand to his mouth, slackening his wrist and turning his palm away from him. Slowly, he pressed his lips to the back of his hand.

Malfoy, who had been watching Harry since the moment he picked up the parchment, smiled to himself. The future of his day was still bright after all.

In identical fashion, he brought his own hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to its pale back. He met Harry's shining green eyes for a moment, and then, indignantly, pulled his hand from his mouth and gave the other boy the middle finger from across the Great Hall.

Harry, seeing this, sighed.

He was far too fond of games like these.

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Well, I hope that you enjoyed this. The next chapter is their meeting ... that'll be especially fun to write ... hehe. If you liked this and want me to continue before you all die from old age, please review! Reviews make me a happy, punctual authoress.


	7. Of Meeting and Manicures

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: My guinea pigs so cute! I loveth them. I also loveth my boyfriend, with whom I have our 14th month anniversary today! I'm so pleased about that ... today is a pretty good day, I suppose. Even detention was fun. YES, I SAID FUN, high school dictators! So damn fun. I _love_ to read quietly for 45 minutes. I actually never get the chance otherwise.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
==================================================  
  
A lone blonde calmly strolled the halls of the dungeons, a small box under one arm. The torches blazed around him in the quiet darkness, setting afire an orange glow in his loose hair and sharp silver eyes.   
  
He stopped abruptly in front of a heavy-looking door, its wood dark mahogany carved with protective runes. He knocked loudly, then waited.  
  
Who is it? an irritated voice called, one filled with frustration at having been disturbed at such a late hour.  
  
Only me, Draco called back, smirking a bit. He heard disgruntled muttering from inside the door, and within a few moments, it swung wide open.  
  
He walked into the cramped room, looking around at the walls by habit, walls converted into huge shelves storing a large array of ingredients and jarred creature remains. He then turned to the man sitting at a wide desk directly facing the door.  
  
Evening, Severus, Draco said lazily, running a hand through his hair. Lovely roses you have there. Are they from a secret lover?  
  
He gestured to the large black vase on his head of house's desk, which was filled with blood red roses, all thick and in full bloom. Snape's head shot up at this comment, and he scowled at the boy.  
  
What are you doing wandering the halls at this hour, Mr. Malfoy? Snape snapped, looking back down and continuing to scribble on his parchment. It's nearly ten. Go back to your dormitory.  
  
I was just heading that way, Draco agreed, walking toward the roses. He cupped one in his palm, grinning at them darkly. I only wanted to bid you a good night.  
  
Well, you have, Snape grumbled. Good night, Malfoy.  
  
What, praytell, are you working on _so_ late in the evening? Draco asked calmly, staring at the parchments that littered Snape's desk. The professor sighed, lifting his head to look once again at the shrewd blonde.  
  
My lesson plans for the coming Monday, he drawled, his black eyes narrowing at his student's curiosity. Why do you ask?  
  
Draco shrugged, backing away from the roses in favor of returning to the front of the desk. He caught Snape's black stare for a moment, returning it in full force, and then smiled gamely.  
  
Might I have a peek, Sev? Draco purred, leaning in closer to the Potions master. He narrowed his eyes further, raising a sharply curved eyebrow.  
  
Is that all you want, to see the lesson plan in advance? Snape growled, rolling his eyes. You don't need an unfair advantage, Malfoy. You're _all ready_ the best in your year.  
  
Oh, I know, I just, Draco began, breaking off his words to hum for a moment as he thought. I just want to research in advance. I want to become a Potions master myself one day, you know.  
  
Snape eyed him darkly at this, and Draco grinned, knowing full well that Snape thought he was full of shit.  
  
Snape grumbled, sliding the parchment toward his favorite student. We'll be brewing an adrenaline draught. Sharper eyesight, greater depth of hearing, heightened sense of smell, and so on.  
  
Draco replied distantly, sliding back the plans. Thanks much, Sev.  
  
Go to bed, Malfoy, Snape snarled, waving the student away. Draco waved back cheerfully, mocking his instructor as he spun around.  
  
Night, Severus, he called behind his shoulder, leaving the office and closing the door with a loud thud.  
  
Snape, muttering to himself, cast a quick locking charm on his office entryway.  
  
Goddamn overachievers, he mumbled under his breath, continuing to scribble final touches on his lesson plans.  
  
Draco reentered the dungeon hall, strolling down it lazily, as before. He smirked to himself, quite proud, satisfied; it was too easy to get what you wanted when you were so favored.  
  
He stopped in front of the door that was three down from Snape's office, pausing to pull his wand elegantly from beneath his sweeping robes. He held it out, tapping the rough wood quickly three times.  
  
Biddeus Ouvriri, Draco whispered under his breath. He waited a moment, then pulled open the door and quickly swept himself inside.  
  
The room within wasn't large, but it still felt spacious. Dark green, silk wallcovering clung to the walls, accented by a spider-like gold pattern that glowed silver in the firelight. Two torches blazed on the walls, revealing a large bookcase and a coordinating pair of black leather seating pieces, one a loveseat and the other a spacious armchair. They were arranged to face a stone fireplace, which Draco set ablaze with a flick of his wand.  
  
Two other doors graced the walls. One, Draco knew, led to a moderate, yet lavishly designed bathroom, and the other to a bedroom with a large, single bed. He had never had need of the bed, though it had often come to mind at the beginning of a one-night stand. Still, it had somehow seemed wrong to use it even in such a convenient situation, and the bed remained a virgin, lavish and waiting in the darkness of the closed-off room.  
  
A desk was pushed against the wall of the main room, and it was to this point that Draco walked. He set down his black box and began to unpack it, pulling bottle after bottle of potion ingredients from its depths, finally lifting out a small silver cauldron and a large stirring spoon.  
  
Having arranged the set on the desk, Draco walked over to the couch, whose leather was now warm from the fire. He settled down into it, stretching out his arms to his sides and sighing. He now had only to wait.  
  
He did not have to wait long.  
  
===============================================================  
  
Harry was wandering the dungeon corridors slowly, frowning at every dark corner. The dungeons were eerie even during the day, but at night, and devoid of any noise at all- they were damn creepy.  
  
He was wearing his father's invisibility cloak, despite the fact that the map clenched in his hand told him that no one was in the halls near him. He watched himself, a labeled dot, move past a door behind which a dot named Severus Snape was hovering. A few more feet, a few more doors ... there.  
  
Behind this door, the dot labeled Draco Malfoy sat unmoving, as if waiting for him.   
  
Harry looked up at the door, frowning. It was made from rough wood, a door that would never arise suspicion in anyone looking for it. He reached out, twisting the handle and opening the door - just to see if it was true.  
  
It was. The room before him was nothing but a tiny, crammed, dusty broomcloset lined with a layer of grey and massive spider webs. Harry sneezed as a small wave of dust swept up toward him, blinking as he stared at the clutter of brooms and mops inside. A massive bag of kitty litter sat half-opened in the corner.  
  
Filch must have used this at some point,' Harry mused to himself, coughing as quietly as he could, with Snape only a feet away. Well .. it's now or never ..'  
  
He dug into his robes, pulling out his wand as he, after looking both ways down the corridor, let his cloak slide from his shoulders. He reached out, tapping the door three times.  
  
Biddeus Ouvriri, he muttered. He waited a moment, gathering the cloak into his arms, and then, taking a large breath, turned the copper knob.  
  
It opened to a room glowing with orange-yellow firelight, moderately-sized but elegant all the same. He stepped inside, looking around as he did so, and shut the door with a quiet click'.  
  
It was at this noise that a head shot up near the black sofa. Draco Malfoy, his chin-length hair pooling on the top of the back of the couch, turned his head slowly, his lips curled into a smile.  
  
You're late, Potter, he remarked, staring at the boy standing awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
Harry scowled at the blonde, setting the bundle in his arms down carefully on the floor. He turned back to stare at the waiting boy darkly, narrowing his eyes.  
  
Go fuck yourself, Malfoy, he snapped, his green eyes flickering with anger.  
  
Malfoy raised a pale eyebrow, looking mildly offended.  
  
So soon? he offered, his smile fading into a brilliant smirk.  
  
I just came from comforting Hermione for two hours solid, Harry growled, standing far from the fire, hovering in shadows. She spent her entire evening crying in the common room, whether behind a book or otherwise.  
  
Malfoy snapped, annoyed. No one else saw that letter.  
  
She's certain that the next stunt you pull will be more public, Harry explained, frowning. And, after thinking on it for awhile, I've realized that I think it will be, too.  
  
Next stunt? Malfoy repeated, sneering. Please. Granger has already received too much of my precious attention. Another stunt will spoil her into thinking she's special to me.  
  
Just shut the fuck up, Harry muttered darkly. Malfoy sighed, turning away from the other boy so that he was facing the crackling fire.  
  
I already informed you that I was going to end it, he said quietly. Provided that your ... advice proves satisfactory. You did come here with an idea, didn't you? Or did you come to call it all off?  
  
Harry stood in silence for a moment, thinking. He wasn't really sure himself why he had still chosen to come. Could he really civilly associate with someone who had so hurt his friend? He wasn't sure.  
  
But it seemed worth a try, at least for one evening, one chance.  
  
I came with an idea, Harry said at last, reaching into his pocket and walking toward the sofa. Malfoy turned, watching him as he took a seat in the black armchair.  
  
Do tell, Malfoy drawled, smirking.  
  
Harry held out a small plastic bottle filled with lavender liquid, his face strangely calm.  
  
What the fuck is that? Malfoy sneered, pointing to the bottle. That looks muggle.  
  
It is muggle, Harry nodded, pulling a few cotton balls from his pocket as well. I borrowed it from Ginny. Apparently, Hermione let her borrow it when she couldn't remember the spell that did the same thing.  
  
The female Weasel? Malfoy asked disdainfully, leaning back into the sofa. Harry continued to nod, unscrewing the plastic top of the bottle. He took a cotton ball, placing it on the bottle's opening before quickly turning it upside down and right again.  
  
All right, Harry said at last, setting down the bottle on a side table and holding the cotton ball carefully between his fingers. Give me your hand.  
  
Malfoy snapped, his jaw dropping at the other boy.  
  
Harry merely nodded, reaching out his own hand as if to take that of the shocked blonde.  
  
You wanted my help, Harry reminded him, frowning at his hesitance.  
  
What the fuck _is_ that purple stuff? Malfoy hissed, staring warily at the cotton ball.  
  
Nail polish remover, Harry answered tartly. He grinned a bit at the look of revulsion on Malfoy's face.  
  
I do _not_ wear nail polish! he snarled, holding out his pale hand, fingernails toward Harry, for proof. The raven-haired boy only scoffed, his grin deepening as amusement began to dance in his green eyes.  
  
They're shinier than Snape's greasy hair, Harry chuckled. You use clear polish. I know that you do.  
  
Don't insult Severus and _how the fuck would you know?!_ Draco hissed, his voice steadily raising in volume. Have you been _studying_ my _fucking_ hands, Potter?  
  
No, but I was looking at your wand pretty closely when you had it nearly down my throat yesterday, Harry answered calmly. And I noticed that your fingernails, well ... reflected the sunlight in an unnatural way ...  
  
Draco hissed, paling. Fine, you arse, I fucking wear nail polish. But there is _nothing wrong_ with having clean, well-cared for hands! I don't need to look like I just had a three-hour Herbology session to be fucking _straight_!  
  
Harry ordered him composedly, resisting the urge to laugh at the indignant boy. You can still keep them clean. Just not so _shiny._ Now .. give me your hand.  
  
Fuck you, Potter, Draco snarled under his breath, staring silver daggers into the other boy's laughing green eyes. He mumbled to himself angrily, but finally, consented.  
  
He reached out his hand, setting it tentatively on Harry's tanned palm, turning away his eyes as soon as warm skin met skin. He could still feel curious green eyes wandering on his face, and he scowled.  
  
Just get it over with, Potter, he snapped, finally looking up, ready to meet his eyes.  
  
But Harry wasn't looking at him.  
  
His eyes were locked instead on the two hands, both frozen and barely touching despite the heat that radiated from the touch, watching the slick nervous sweat gleaming in the firelight. Their skin contrasted so perfectly ... pale white with copper tan ...  
  
Malfoy interrupted, feeling wary. Harry blinked, and then looked up at him, his lips parted cluelessly.  
  
Oh, right, he mumbled, pressing the wet cotton ball against his enemy's still thumb. His breathing was heavier, and he wished suddenly that he would have thought to take off his student's robe. The heat from the fire was deafening; he was too close.  
  
Malfoy sat frozen on the couch, afraid to move an inch. He had _been_, but never _felt _so suffocatingly close to Potter before. The raven-haired boy was leaning over his hand, concentrating, his hair falling messily over his downcast eyes, his lips parted as he scrubbed in careful circles, removing the polish.  
  
He felt much too close.  
  
Much too close to him ... and yet, he couldn't move. He couldn't even twitch in the slightest.  
  
Harry licked his lips absently as he continued, moving from nail to nail. Malfoy felt his body stiffen, and he breathed out slowly, trying to relax. He couldn't seem to free himself from the tension that flowed through his veins.  
  
He was beginning to sweat. Damn the fire; he should have never lit the fire. It was too fucking hot in the small, dark room.  
  
Other hand, Harry said quietly, not bothering to look up. Malfoy did as he was told, switching hands, the new one already sweating.  
  
He was breathing on his knuckles, warm breath that increased the heat of the fire.  
  
Your fingers are so rigid, Harry said absently, staring down at his work. You can relax a little bit. It won't hurt anything if you move a little.  
  
I am relaxed, Malfoy lied. Are you almost done?  
  
Two fingers, Harry answered, circling away with the cotton ball. Malfoy panted, longing to withdraw his hand but feeling strangely trapped. He couldn't move his hand. It was .. captured there. Frozen there, between his hand and his parted lips.  
  
Malfoy asked quickly. Harry shook his head quickly.  
  
One more, Harry replied, moving his cotton ball immediately to Malfoy's pinkie finger. He waited patiently, trying desperately to control his breath, until finally, his hand was dropped.  
  
Malfoy pulled it back to his body immediately, staring at Harry wide-eyed.  
  
Not so bad, hmm? Harry said, wanting to break the tension. He put the slightly damp cotton ball in his pocket, rescrewing the cap on the bottle.   
  
Malfoy found himself nodding mindlessly, his eyes still on the other boy. Nothing had happened, _happened_, and yet he had the unmistakable feeling that something had happened without him realizing that it had happened, or knowing what had taken place.  
  
Best to forget about it,' Malfoy told himself strictly. It was nothing.'  
  
Now no one can say you're overly fond of manicures, Harry tried again, after the other boy had failed to speak. Malfoy then, suddenly, snapped back into reality, and scowled.  
  
Yes, I suppose so, he muttered. He stroked a fingernail with his thumb, frowning at how bare it felt.  
  
Harry said, standing. It's your turn now.  
  
Malfoy frowned, standing as well, by habit. What do you mean?  
  
Tutor me in Potions, then, Harry answered, frowning slightly. Or did you want to go?  
  
No, we made a deal, Malfoy snapped, turning toward the desk. Besides, I already set it up ... go over by the desk, and we'll start.  
  
Harry said warily, walking over to the desk, feeling Malfoy following him. There had been something odd about the other boy for a second, something ... uncharacteristic of the insensitive blonde.  
  
But, he couldn't seem to put his finger on it. He seemed fine now.  
  
It must have been nothing. He was probably just imagining it.  
  
_That's weird, _Harry thought to himself, adverting his eyes slightly. _I could have swore that he .. looked .. stunned? But why would he be stunned that I took off his nail polish?  
  
It makes no sense. _He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind. That thought just didn't fit with his image of Malfoy. He would forget it.  
  
The fire blazed on as the two boys gathered around the desk, their faces shadowed in the flickering orange light.   
  
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Congratulations, my darlings, you hath made me happy and punctual! I love everyone that reviewed, and I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this chapter. I have a nice balance of humor, love and sex planned for the future (though how much sexuality there will be, I'm not exactly sure as of now). Thanks for reading, and have a lovely day!


	8. Of Sleeping, Smiling and Severus

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: I'm listening to by Kelis .. is that a bad thing to be listening to while writing slash or what? Thanks for reading, anyways, and have a lovely day! Eat cotton candy if you get sad, it helps.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
==================================================  
  
I like this set, Harry said absently, brushing his fingertips against a large bottle of burgundy liquid. Where did you get this?  
  
Malfoy stood awkwardly at his side, staring at the other boy. He had bristled when he had touched one of _his_ potion ingredients, but had for some reason chosen not to say anything.   
  
Diagon Alley, he drawled, uncomfortable. You can usually find sets like these next to the cauldrons.  
  
Harry replied absently, picking up a small jar containing the crushed, lumpy leaves of an unknown plant. What is this?  
  
For someone who is currently _failing_ potions, you sure are bloody fascinated, Malfoy mumbled, snatching the jar from Harry's hand. Mortared chilken weed. Odd that you picked it out, we'll be needing it for this potion.  
  
What potion? Harry asked, turning his eyes on the other boy. They were wide with curiosity, and for an unknown reason sent a shiver down Malfoy's already rigid spine.   
  
He had never seen Harry's eyes unclouded by hate. They were so ... open to everything. Even his attempts at teaching.  
  
Those green eyes were unnerving him greatly.  
  
An adrenaline draught, Malfoy answered, his voice laced with pride. Snape is having us brew it on Monday. I thought that if you practiced it in advance, you wouldn't _completely_ screw yourself over.  
  
He is? Harry asked, frowning. But how'd you find that out? Snape never tells us what we're going to be brewing in advance.  
  
I'm just that special, Potter, the blonde smirked. Anyway, the recipe for the potion is in here.   
  
He slid a small, rather dusty leather-bound book toward Harry, who picked it up, opening it hesitantly.  
  
Harry answered, paging through the book in an attempt to find the adrenaline draught. Malfoy grinned at his bowed head, amused at how lost the other boy appeared.  
  
Well, good luck, he said amiably, turning away from the desk with a smirk and making his way back to the warm leather couch.  
  
Huh, what? Harry said, jerking his head up at this. Where are you going? Aren't you going to tutor me or something?  
  
Malfoy hummed, sliding down into the comfortable loveseat. Well, to be blunt, no.  
  
Harry gasped, incredulous. What kind of tutor _are _you?  
  
The potion should take about forty minutes to brew, at which point I'll come to check it over, Malfoy drawled from the sofa, settling in and ignoring his pupil. After that, it need to ferment for a few days. It explains it all in the book.  
  
That's _it_? Harry frowned, setting the book back down on the desk. You're just going to _sit_ there while I work? Shouldn't you-  
  
No, I shouldn't need to babysit you, Malfoy snapped, leaning his head back against the top of the back of the sofa. If I spoonfeed you, you'll never learn.  
  
So that's the ingenious Malfoy teaching method, Harry growled in the direction of the back of the blonde's head. Don't teach the student anything and eventually they'll _figure it out_?  
  
I've had a long day, Potter, Malfoy mumbled, closing his eyes. Just shut up and work.  
  
Harry scowled at this, stepping toward his relaxing teacher.  
  
A long day torturing my friend and then laughing at her while she cried! he snapped, drawing his wand from his robe. You're sick, Malfoy!  
  
Put your wand away, Potter, Malfoy sighed, raising a few fingers to massage his temple. The longer you complain and the less you work, the longer we'll both be here.  
  
I can't believe you, Harry muttered, but put away his wand none the less, finding no threat in the other boy. You call this _teaching_? You're nothing but a lazy-  
  
My teaching method is very simple, Potter, Malfoy continued in the same tired, frustrated voice. If you happen to fuck up the potion, you drink it, thus putting your own precious life on the line. It's called negative motivation.  
  
Oh, that's original, Harry snapped. You're nothing but a blonde, adolescent Snape.  
  
Malfoy bristled at this, groaning in a combination of anger and exhaustion.  
  
_Fine_ Potter, if you insist we raise the stakes, we will, he scowled from the black sofa. If you fail the potion, not only will you sample the godforsaken substance, you will have a word with Snape.  
  
Have a word with Snape? Harry sneered, feeling mildly amused. That was the best punishment he could come up with? He had handled Snape relatively well in the past.  
  
Malfoy answered dryly. _My _word.  
  
Harry nearly laughed. And if I do it perfectly?  
  
You won't, Malfoy sighed. But if by some miracle you do, I'll do whatever you want.  
  
Whatever I want? Harry grinned. He felt slightly out of place from lack of sleep, and this sounded very advantageous.  
  
Yes Potter, now get the fuck to work, Malfoy snarled, breathing heavily to control his temper and thus continue his relaxation.  
  
Fine, you arse, Harry frowned, turning back to the desk with the hairs on the back of his neck all irately erect.  
  
He listened to Malfoy's steady breathing as he worked the potion, finding the reminder of his presence strangely motivating. He made deliberately sure that he added the ingredients slowly and carefully, according to the directions of the cramped book. About fifty minutes later, he added the final ingredient, stirring it in quickly. The potion bubbled a bright, gurgling blue.  
  
I'm done, Malfoy, Harry announced, spinning around triumphantly.  
  
The steady breathing continued.  
  
Come over here and check the damn thing, _Professor Malfoy_, Harry said rather loudly, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He waited.  
  
The steady breathing continued, in and out, slowly.  
  
Harry frowned, setting down his spoon and walking closer to the couch. Malfoy's head was slumped to the side, resting on the back of the couch, his platinum hair spilling around it.  
  
Harry asked loudly, leaning closer to the boy.  
  
Malfoy mumbled, shifting slightly. A moment later he sighed, and his steady, deep breathing continued, his chest heaving slightly.  
  
You're sleeping, Harry said dully, surprised but more dumbfounded than anything. He sighed himself, standing fully and walking around the couch, kneeling down on the floor so that he was in front of the boy rather than behind the back of his head.  
  
He reached out his hand, ready to shake the blonde gently awake.  
  
Mmm .. oh ..kay, the boy mumbled, talking in his slumber, his lips barely moving. Harry's hand froze in midair, and he frowned, feeling his chest tighten. He didn't want to wake him just yet, some deep part of himself decided.  
  
Instead, he stared at him.  
  
Draco Malfoy looked startlingly different when he was asleep. His usually perfectly controlled expression was lax, his face relaxed and fully honest. His lips, usually curled into a tight sneer or scowl, were parted and flushed, releasing the air from his lungs in steady intervals. His silky blonde hair, usually gelled to perfection, was loose, falling around his pale face in gentle waves.  
  
Harry's own lips parted as he continued to look on, his mind wiping itself blank. He didn't think a word as he let his hand reach out further, brushing against the top of the boy's head. His fingers glided against his hair, parting silky strands like waves in water.  
  
_He's beautiful_, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, and he sighed, his heartbeat slowing in sadness.  
  
Malfoy mumbled, and as Harry watched, the blonde shifted his head, forcing his still hand to slide down to the boy's pale cheek. Harry felt the muscles in his arm stiffen, and he waited, suddenly horrified, for the other boy to awaken.  
  
Instead, as the depths of Harry's stomach lurched with fear and anticipation, the blonde sighed softly, and then, with such ease that it shocked the raven-haired boy, he smiled.  
  
It was the most beautiful smile that Harry could ever remember seeing, a smile that seemed perfect- not fleeting, not born from laughter or momentary happiness. It was a smile that lingered, gentle and complete, a smile of perfect satisfaction.  
  
Harry jerked his hand back, his jaw dropping. He had not thought Malfoy capable of a smile like that.  
  
He had not thought _anyone _humancapable of a smile like that.  
  
_What the hell am I doing?! _he thought suddenly, jolting himself back into reality. He withdrew his hand completely, his mind racing with his heartbeat; had he been imagining it? It couldn't have been real.  
  
He couldn't have just watched that happen. Watched himself _let_ it happen so easily.  
  
Wake up, Malfoy, he said loudly, his voice now laced with desperation. He reached his hand out once again, but this time he shook the shoulder of the slumbering boy, confusion in his green eyes.  
  
Please wake up, he muttered, continuing to jostle the boy.  
  
Malfoy began to murmur incoherently, first in a voice that sounded pleading, then confused, and then finally annoyed. With a few moments, his silver eyes snapped open, finding themselves staring into deep, troubled green.  
  
Malfoy jerked upright immediately, blinking several times from the shock. His heart was pounding in his chest. Potter, kneeling before him, looked pale as a ghost, staring at him as though he had just died.  
  
Was I asleep? he asked, muttering the words angrily. How could he let himself let down his guard so easily when he was with _Potter_? Alone in a secret room with _Potter_?  
  
_What the hell is wrong with me?!_ he growled to himself, straightening his clothing as inconspicuously and quickly as he could.  
  
You were, Harry answered, blinking several times himself. You must have dozed off while I was working. I'm done now, anyway.  
  
Right, yeah, Malfoy muttered, trying to shake away the effects of just having woken up. Let's see.  
  
Harry stood all too quickly, nearly rushing back to the desk. Malfoy took his time, stretching as he stood, all the while muttering angrily to himself. He could not let that happen again.  
  
It's blue, Harry said, his former spirit falling back into his voice at the reminder of the potion. It was already becoming easy to forget the smile, at least for now. Just like the book says it should be.  
  
Malfoy mused, looking down into the cauldron at the now still depths. Let me see that book.  
  
Harry handed it to him, grinning hesitantly. The potion was _blue_, as it should be. Perhaps he'd won after all. Perhaps he would get to order him around, at least one single, grand time.  
  
_I order you to fall asleep and dream of something pleasant, so that I can watch you and see you smile like that again, like a bloody fallen angel.  
  
_He didn't think this thought but rather felt it, subduing it quickly with feelings of triumph at having beat Malfoy.  
  
It _is _blue, the blonde affirmed finally, closing the book. _Turquoise_ blue. _Bright_ turquoise blue. It's supposed to be a very dark, navy blue, nearly black.  
  
Harry frowned, his face paling. He'd ... lost?  
  
Malfoy turned to him, amused for a moment by the horrified expression on Potter's face. It was pure joy to humiliate him. It always had been.  
  
It looks like I've won, he announced maliciously. You forgot to add the dried yolk of a raven egg. Either that, or you added too little ... granted, the list was a bit smudged, but ... you might have asked.  
  
Harry gasped, scowling. You were asleep, how the hell was I supposed to _ask_ you?  
  
Malfoy shrugged, smirking to himself.  
  
Not my problem, Potter, he answered easily. Anyway. Tomorrow morning at breakfast, you will have a word with Severus. And in two days, once the potion has fermented, you will drink a sample in order to see just how _much _you screwed it up.  
  
Harry snapped, casting bitter eyes on the ruined potion. What do I have to say to Snape tomorrow? Good morning, Professor?  
  
Malfoy stared at him, his silver eyes laughing as his lips curled into a brilliant smirk.  
  
=================================================================  
  
**_Draco_**: Hello, reviewers. The authoress is busy playing with her furry little rodents at the moment, too busy, in fact, to do her typical review and make me happy speech. So I've been assigned to do it for her. Here I go.  
  
DO NOT REVIEW. That's right, bastards! Reviewing this story only perpetuates the sick circulation of slash fanfiction! It is all a TWISTED LIE. I am NOT ATTRACTED TO HARRY POTTER. I WILL KILL HIM AT THE END OF BOOK SEVEN AND THEN HAVE SEX WITH A WOMAN ON HIS GRAVE!  
  
Either that or consummate my relationship with him and buy him a ring, but _I think you know the truth. _Therefore _NO REVIEWING, YOU SICK MINDED FOOLS!_


	9. Of Negative Reinforcement and Revenge

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: My mother and I went out for Chinese food tonight, and then went for ice cream. It was wholesome and fun, and very enjoyable, especially since today I bumped into her mini-van and busted one of her lights. .. And I worked six hours, always fun. I hope that your day was as irrationally balanced as mine.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **I realize that my plot is drifting along slowly, so this is a note on time: The story began on a Monday. The boys met on Wednesday night, and it is now _Thursday morning_. Okee doo?  
  
==================================================  
  
There he was, sitting in his usual place and flanked by his two friends. His hair was perfection, gelled and unmoving, glare reflecting off it in the morning light. He was eating a piece of toast slowly, chewing each tiny bite at least ten times.  
  
And he was staring at him with narrowed silver eyes, waiting.  
  
What're you looking at, Harry? Ron asked, turning to his friend with a clueless frown. He took a quick bite of his bacon, puzzled.  
  
No one, Harry said quickly, then froze his tongue, cursing his mistake.  
  
What, _who? _Ron replied, his head snapping up. He looked first in the direction of the Ravenclaw table - but no, his friend's gaze wasn't lingering there, on another certain raven-haired beauty. He followed Harry's eyes carefully, and then suddenly ... it clicked.  
  
Malfoy, huh? he said gravely, nodding his approval as he took another large bite. Yeah, I'm really pissed with him too. But don't worry about him too much ... I took care of him.  
  
Harry turned to Ron, his eyebrow raised high in disbelief, his lips parted and twisted in a disgusted mix of shock and incredulity.  
  
You _what? _he spat, frowning. What'd you do?  
  
It's a surprise, Ron nodded proudly. I did it to get back for Hermione .. she's still pretty upset about everything, you know .. it should make her feel better.  
  
_What did you do_? Harry repeated tersely, his eyes darkening.  
  
I told you, it's a surprise, you'll see soon enough! Ron replied with some cheer. It'll be funny.  
  
Harry sighed, nodding both by habit and to silence his friend. Whatever he had done,' he was sure that Malfoy would able to handle it with a hand tied behind his back.  
  
Malfoy ... the same stranger whose unexpected smile had warped his heart the night before. He wished for a moment, almost subconsciously, that the other boy was closer, so that he might study his lips and try to remember it, the smile, in living detail ..  
  
His mind immediately slapped itself for thinking this. He couldn't think things like that about Malfoy, after all, Malfoy was ... another guy.   
  
And straight ... or at the very least, very set on that path.  
  
Not to mention he was a black-hearted future Death Eater who had probably been daydreaming of killing him in History of Magic since the day they'd met. His mortal enemy, his beautiful enemy who had smiled ... well. Smiled a smile never meant for him to see.  
  
Wait, what the heck is Malfoy _doing_? Ron commented, snapping Harry back into reality. His green eyes immediately focused on the other boy, who was jerking his head furiously toward the Head table and sending him obscene hand gestures.  
  
Harry mumbled to himself. I was hoping he'd forgotten.  
  
Huh, what? Ron asked, frowning. I didn't catch that.  
  
Better now than later, I guess, Harry sighed miserably, shoving away his uneaten plate of eggs while Ron stared at him, wide-eyed and confused.  
  
What are you _talking_ about? Ron frowned, his jaw dropping as Harry suddenly stood, his face dark and resolute. Malfoy, over at the Slytherin table, ceased in his frantic, indecent gestures and smirked mercilessly.  
  
I'll be right back, Harry said distantly to Ron, walking away from the Gryffindor table and heading toward the Head table as slowly as possible. All the while, he shot the blonde dirty, icy glares, sneering at him when he continuing to nibble, amused, on his piece of toast.  
  
_Bloody blondes and their creativity, _he thought disdainfully to himself, finally reaching the Head table. All of the teachers were staring at him with interest, especially Dumbledore, whose infamously twinkling eyes were following him intently. Harry lowered his head, his cheeks burning with both shame and anger, as he slowly to a stop in front of Snape's plate.  
  
He raised his head regretfully, a sore frown on his face.  
  
Good morning, Professor Snape, he spat, adverting his eyes at much as possible without actually turning away. The older man sneered, dropping his fork with a loud metallic thud.  
  
What is it you want, Potter? he snarled, angry at having been interrupted while eating his porridge.  
  
Harry sighed, mumbling choice curse words under his breath.  
  
Say it before the meal is over, Snape hissed, narrowing his eyes. Harry jerked up his own eyes forcefully, shoving down his urge to strangle a certain schoolmate.  
  
I just wanted to inform you that I think you, err, Harry mumbled, gritting his teeth together tightly, Look very .. _pretty _this morning.  
  
_What_ did you say?! Snape growled, his jaw dropping in disgust. Harry only sighed deeply, growling in the back of his throat once all the air in his lungs had passed through.  
  
Have a nice day, Professor, he said blankly, turning and walking slowly, step by step, back to the Gryffindor table. He met Malfoy's eyes for a moment, sneering when he saw that they were flicking with devious, joyous laughter.  
  
Oh, fuck you, he said quietly to himself, frowning deeply and feeling very much like boycotting the rest of his day. He reached his House table, sinking down into his seat and ignoring the shocked stares of his two friends.  
  
What was _that_ all about, Harry? Hermione asked, her brown eyes wide with concern. Harry shook his head slowly, waving a hand dismissively through the air.  
  
he mumbled, a single word resonating in his mind.  
  
_Revenge.  
  
_Harry, you can tell us, Ron assured hesitantly, his food long forgotten.  
  
_He _had_ to get revenge for this, sick teaching technique or not.  
  
_Occlumency lessons, he muttered, lost in his thoughts. Ron and Hermione, not sure how to argue this, nodding and continued eating, casting one another confused looks over Harry's oblivious head.  
  
_He would think of something perfect ... something the blonde couldn't ignore, or force into backfiring with a few clever words. He would think of something ...  
  
_Well. Something that Malfoy himself would have thought up._  
  
================================================================  
  
_It was hours later, sitting in a plush armchair near the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room, that said perfect plan dawned on his mind. He was pretending to read a chapter of his Transfiguration textbook as he worked out the finer details, affirming the reasons as to why it would succeed.  
  
Firstly, it would be something that Malfoy wouldn't be expecting.  
  
It would be something he _definitely_ couldn't ignore, and ..  
  
It would be something that wouldn't give the blonde reason to cancel their Friday night rendezvous, which had been arranged for said evening as Harry still needed to test out the would-then-be fully completed adrenaline draught.  
  
Check. Check. _Check.  
  
_Wow, Harry, you look totally absorbed in that chapter, Ron commented from a chair across from his, parchment scattered across his lap. I thought it was boring as all bloody hell. Hermione must finally be having some kind of influence on you.  
  
Harry grinned at this, not looking up.  
  
he said in reply, _Someone_ definitely is.  
  
Tomorrow, he would execute his little plan. His enemy would learn that he was not the only one who thrived on being in control.  
  
================================================================  
  
Friday is going to be such a good day for this story. I want to write it now .. arrrgh, being patient is annoying. Well, anywoo, I'm glad that some of you had fun scolding Draco, or offering to be his grave whore (I'd opt for that one, too!). Maybe he'll do another message if I get bored with making up messages again, I dunno. Well, uhm ... please review! I only update fast because I get motivational reviews.   
  
I just proofread this chapter, and well ... damn, it's a weird one. It's one of those odd chapters that have to exist in order to allow the following chapter (destined to be a lot better) make sense. I hope you enjoyed it, anyway ... and look forward to a good chapter next time ... heh heh, later my loves. 


	10. Of Leather Pants and Indecent Thoughts

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: The note at the end is better. Why do I have two notes, anyway? I don't need two bloody notes. And yet ... it seemed unbalanced not to have two notes. Maybe I should change this section from Authorness Ramble to Draco's Greeting, huh? You all seem to like him better than me, anyway.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Friday _in the story.  
  
==================================================  
  
Harry dug his teeth furiously into a soft, blueberry Danish pastry, tearing its flakey crust with a searing passion. He reached for his morning pumpkin juice, swallowing a large gulp before sighing appreciatively. He was trying to keep his eyes steady on the Danish his hands ... trying to avoid the silvery gaze glinting from over one hundred feet away.  
  
He was failing miserably.  
  
Hermione and Ron were watching him rip through his food with slack jaws, chewing their own bites slowly. They had never seen their friend eat so ferociously - usually, Harry ate relatively little, not being very much of a morning person. He had also been known to scoff the Danishes in favor of less sweet foods.  
  
On the opposite end of the Great Hall, Draco was sipping a glass of wine, requested in a strange moment of morning cheer, and watching the raven-haired boy with amusement as he attempt to eat as much food as he could within a twenty-minute period. His burgandy-stained lips were twisted in a half-smirk, half-smile, his eyes glittering.  
  
Drake, dearest, you look cheery this morning, Pansy said from his side, grinning as he tilted his wine glass in slow circles with his wrist. And alcohol that won't get you drunk in one shot, I see. Dare I ask the occasion?  
  
Draco didn't answer for a moment, his eyes raising slightly as Harry stood abruptly, dropping a Danish onto his half-filled plate.  
  
Oh, no occasion, he replied at last, taking a quiet sip. I'm just pleased that it's Friday.  
  
Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione had paused in putting away her Charms essay, staring up at Harry in slight disbelief. Ron, startled from his meal when the Danish had been dropped with a loud plop, was looking up at him as well.  
  
What do you mean, you're going to the library? the bushy-haired girl scolded, frowning disapprovingly. Class starts in fifteen minutes! You'll never make it back in time, and McGonagall will have your head!  
  
I'm sorry, it's an emergency, Harry said through gritted teeth, flushing with prolonged anxiety.  
  
An emergency? Ron repeated dully, frowning. Is something the matter, mate?  
  
Harry hissed, picking up his bookbag. I just .. need to do this thing!  
  
Why didn't you do it earlier? Hermione asked, her eyes flickering with both worry and fresh anger. You sat around in the common room all of last night!  
  
Harry frowned at this; she was right. In truth, his plan hadn't been finalized until last night, and even if he'd thought of it earlier, last night wouldn't have worked.  
  
Just .. let me go, Harry sighed at last, shaking his head. I can take care of myself, and I'll accept the responsibility for missing class. This is just something I need to do.  
  
Hermione and Ron looked at each other sourly, both frowning, but reluctantly turned back to Harry with submissive glances.  
  
See you later, then, Ron said slowly, a lopsided look on his face.  
  
he answered quickly, shifting the bag on his shoulder. I'll catch up with you later, Ron. Hermione.  
  
With this, he turned and rushed from the Great Hall, his robes shuffling in his wake. A few people had already stood to wander to their first class early, and as such he wasn't alone in leaving, but his speed still turned a few curious heads. He ignored them, pushing past the entrance doors.  
  
He stopped suddenly, skidding to a halt, and then turned not toward the staircase that would lead to the library, but rather toward the door leading to the dungeons.  
  
He began his quick walk again, and after checking to make sure that no one was around to watch him, he slipped his invisibility cloak from his bag and draped it fluidly over his shoulders.  
  
His plan had been set in motion.  
  
Navigating the dungeon corridors without having had much experience was a nightmare, but with the help of the Marauder's Map and his vague memory from second year, he eventually found his target.  
  
The entrance to the Slytherin common room was nothing but a stone wall, blending in perfectly with the other stretches of plain stone woven throughout the dungeons. Harry frowned when he reached it, realizing that he had no idea what the password was. He drifted into the shadows near the wall, deciding to wait for some unknowing Slytherin to come along and gain him entrance.  
  
He didn't end up having to wait long. Ten minutes or so later, a girl looking to be either a third or fourth year student hurried up to the wall, cursing herself loudly for forgetting her Potions textbook on her bedside table.  
  
Harry, hidden beneath the cloak and the shifting darkness, smirked.  
  
she yelped, and the wall cleared away. She stepped through, oblivious to the unseen form that was following behind her.  
  
After this point, he used the Marauder's Map to help him find the dorm rooms, located at various points along a pair of spiraling staircases that twisted through a huge stone tower. He'd seen the girl disappear up one of them, and as such took the other, figuring it to be the one leading to the boys' dormitories.  
  
He stopped at the sixth door along the ascending, twisting staircase, entering it cautiously. Within was a lavishly decorated hallway, massive white candles with dripping wax floating near the walls between the many doors that lined the half-shadowed corridor. Harry frowned, opening the first door.  
  
A row of typical-looking beds filled this room, propped against stone walls with no windows, their dark green curtains drawn. The trunks set at their feet looked all identical. Harry sighed, running a sweaty hand through his hair; how was he supposed to know which bed belonged to Malfoy?  
  
He exited the room, reentering the hallway only to open a new door that lead to the same sort of dormitory. He tried all of the doors this way, grumbling to himself by the time he reached the last door, this one elegantly carved dark mahogany.  
  
He reached out his hand - only to find that the door had no knob.  
  
What the hell? Harry gasped, pressing his hand against the hard wood instead. He patted down the door, looking for a trigger of some sort; he found none. He frowned to himself, disgruntled, and turned to head back to the staircase.  
  
It was then that he noticed it - a small wooden box, set down on the floor very near to the box. It was made of the same dark wood as the door, and when Harry attempted to lift it, he found that it was cemented permanently to the floor.  
  
he mumbled, lifting its lid instead. He was shocked to the find it unlocked, expecting the little square to be some kind of spare-key holding contraption.  
  
Instead, Harry found that the box held only a small card, yellowed and worn, and a thick silver needle.  
  
He picked up the card, his eyes widening as he read.  
  
_ - Bloodline Door Company, Established 1642 A.C. -  
  
Dearest Sir Malfoy,  
  
As requested, this door and the many others of its kind constructed for your use will open only upon the touch of the genuine blood of your eternal family. Please take care to use additional precaution should a traitor, curse him, be born among your lines.   
  
Many thanks, the Bloodline Door Company  
  
_  
Harry blanched, picking up the needle and understanding its purpose.   
  
he whispered under his breath, watching the needle catch the flickering light of the hallway. There was no way in hell was getting into Malfoy's bedroom now.  
  
And yet ... it could not hurt to try.  
  
Harry frowned, eying the needle warily before clenching it tightly, pressing its tip down into the flesh of the tip of his finger.  
  
You'd better not be diseased or something, Malfoy, he muttered, releasing the air from his lungs in a low hiss as the needle punctured his skin. He removed it quickly, dropping it back in its box.  
  
A moment later, a round drop of blood formed on his finger.  
  
In the very least, I'm defiling his property, Harry said to himself, lifting his hand and pressing his pierced finger firmly to the wood of the door. He held it there for a second, then pulled it away, smearing a small streak of red onto its surface.  
  
He waited, and then ... nothing.  
  
Harry murmured sullenly, shaking his head. He was stupid to even attempt to open it. Did he have a _drop_ of Malfoy blood? Of course he didn't!  
  
He turned back to the stain, ready to wipe it away. His eyes widened slightly.  
  
His blood had disappeared.  
  
_That's weird, _Harry thought to himself, searching the door with his eyes for the little red stain he'd left. He couldn't find a trace of it, not so much as a dark shadow. Spellbound, he reached out his hand, touching the place where it'd been.  
  
He gasped, paling as his fingertips drifted easily through the door.  
  
He pulled back his hand, then tried it again, watching in shock as his fingers passed through the hard wood as easily as a ghost. His jaw loosened, and he stuttered, blinking several times.  
  
_It must be broken_, Harry thought distantly, pushing his entire hand through. He blinked a few more times, attempting to clear his mind: he was a man on a mission, after all. Even if it was a lucky break, it would do him no good standing around and gawking over it.  
  
Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and walked straight through the dark mahogany door.  
  
Harry opened his eyes to a well-lit room, though elegant shadows still twisted playfully along the walls. He widened his eyes to take it all in; the dark green wallpaper, a fragile silver pattern tracing through it, the dark mahogany furniture that matched the wood of the door perfectly, the black candles floating inconspicuously in all the right places.   
  
He smiled unconsciously at the massive black bed, covered in thick, silky-looking dark coverings, a few silver pillows piled at its front. It was a high bed, high enough that a small, three-step set of stairs rested near its right side. Its curtains were open, held back by twisted silver cord.   
  
The bedsheets and comforter within were still mused and twisted, one pillow indented slightly in its middle. Harry approached the bed, staring at it with a distant look in his green eyes.  
  
_He slept there last night.  
  
_There was a fireplace in one corner of the room, up to which a black armchair was pushed. A desk was positioned near the fireplace as well. The fire had long ago burned down into glowing embers.  
  
_He reads in that chair, and works at that very bloody desk.  
  
_The room held a familiar, yet all the same unsettling aura for Harry. It was a room separated from the rest of the world, a room that he, essentially, did not belong within. He felt out of place, compelled not to touch a thing, only stand unmoving and stare, wondering and trying to imagine the blonde living here like a human being that indeed worked and slept and wrote and wondered.  
  
But it was only natural that he felt out of place, wasn't it? He'd bloody _broke in._ He was _trespassing _in this sacred, strange bedroom. Feeling as though he had no right to touch a thing?  
  
He'd _come_ here to touch.  
  
_Focus, Harry, focus_, he encouraged himself, beginning to hesitantly circle the room. _Find the clothes.  
  
_He had originally thought that finding Malfoy's clothes would be an easy thing, as he seemed to own such a massive variety. He'd imagined the blonde owning some kind of huge wardrobe, even having some kind of fifty square foot walk-in closet.  
  
There was no such thing. Even Malfoy's truck, open at the foot of the bed, held nothing but piles of books and oddly-shaped bundles. Ten minutes later, Harry hadn't found so much as a black sock.  
  
Where the hell does he keep them? Harry hissed, giving up and walking over to the unmade black bed. He climbed the tiny set of stairs and sat down, his arse sinking down at least eight inches into the luxurious mattress.  
  
_Bad idea, _Harry thought immediately, jolting and walking quickly back down the little stairs. Touching things, yes, but helping himself to Malfoy's bed? That was taking things just a _bit_ too far.  
  
It was as he stepped off the stairs that Harry noticed the book, sitting openly on Malfoy's bedside table. It was black and leather-bound, inconspicuous in the darkly-decorated room.  
  
Harry's mind had at first screamed and he was hesitant in picking up the book, weighing in his mind just how immoral it was to read someone's private thoughts - especially those of Malfoy. A quick glance at the cover of the book, however, eliminated that possibility.  
  
Impressed in silver on the leather was not the word _Diary _but rather, strangely enough, the word _Dress._ Harry frowned at this, puzzled.  
  
Further examination of the book showed that it was not made up of only pages; the gold-tipped papers were split into sections by tabs, all of which were labeled. Curious, Harry lifted the tab named Robes - Educational, opening the book.  
  
On the first page was a picture of a Slytherin school robe, its folds shifting slightly as though it were trapped in a very light wind. The picture took up most of the page, but below it was a single word, glittering in red: Withdraw (7).  
  
Harry grinned, the purpose of the book beginning to dawn on him. He'd found the clothes after all.  
  
He pressed his finger against watching as a Slytherin robe, perfectly pressed and cleaned, appeared on Malfoy's bed.  
  
Harry smirked, looking back down at the book. It now said Withdraw (6) and below that, Store (1).  
  
He pressed the word watching as the robe disappeared just as easily, returning the page to its original context.  
  
Only you would care _this much _about your clothing, Malfoy, he laughed to himself, eying the other tabs. They included robes - educational, robes - formal, shirts, sweaters, pants, ties, socks, shoes, cloaks and the very end: _underclothing_.  
  
Oh, _yes_, Harry muttered gratefully, opening the last tab. He thumbed through the pages: black silk boxers, grey silk, dark green, blood red ... even a solitary pair of white.  
  
_The Prophet was right about the silk, then, _Harry thought, grinning. He quickly flipped to a new tab, chuckling; he hadn't come here to steal boxers.  
  
He'd come to steal one of the far-beyond-just-metrosexual outfits he _knew_ by instinct that Malfoy was hiding in his private room.  
  
Paging through the book, he saw, in general, clothing that everyone expected Malfoy to wear, clothing that they were used to ... clothing that was questionable in its tightness or elegant taste, but accepted because it was clad on an ice prince that was _not_ to be questioned.  
  
There were, however, odd exceptions.  
  
Twenty minutes and much snickering later, Harry had gone threw the entire book, deciding to withdraw a pink silk shirt and tight, tight black leather pants, paired with black belt that shimmered dark red.  
  
Where the hell did you wear this, Malfoy? Harry wondered aloud, holding up the pants, whose surface gleamed in the light. He had, like most, only seen Malfoy wearing his typical outfit of slim black trousers paired with a black or grey shirt or sweater.  
  
He smiled, laughing internally. Somehow, it made him feel light inside to know that Malfoy had a persona beyond his conservative, yet sleek clothing, a bit of a wild side. It made him feel hopeful to know that more than his wit and his wand were apparently unpredictable.  
  
And just imagining Malfoy wearing these pants, pacing through a shadowed, humid club, holding a cold drink in his slender fingers ...  
  
_Right, don't go there, _Harry scolded, frowning uncomfortably. He dropped the pants like a burning coal, picking up the pink silk, button-up shirt instead. He smiled, amused again, watching the fabric shimmer.  
  
_The leather pants, maybe, but this? This is just so ... flaming.  
  
_Harry shrugged to himself; it didn't really matter where Malfoy had gotten it. The important thing was that it was here, waiting to be discovered by a devious, sinful hand like his.  
  
Stretching his back, Harry pulled off his own shirt, throwing it next to the leather pants on Malfoy's bed. He picked the rose shirt back up, slipping it easily over his shoulders.  
  
_Fuck, this is nice, _Harry thought mildly, smiling as the cool silk slid down his toned upper arms. _I can see now why he likes silk boxers so much ...  
  
_He grinned, reaching down and beginning to button the shirt. He winced, realizing that, though obviously designed to be flowing and at least somehow loose, it barely closed around his abdomen.  
  
He pulled the silk taut, managing to fasten the first five buttons. He frowned when he got higher, however; the last three buttons were a lost cause. The shirt had been tailored for Draco, whose shoulders were slim. Harry's, though not very wide, could not compare.  
  
He sighed, deciding to leave the shirt open. It opposed a foot-long stretch of his tan chest, leaving his neck deliciously open. Though he felt rather delicate - eating anything more than a cracker, he was sure, would pop the buttons he had managed to fasten off - he was glad that it fit.  
  
And now ... the _real_ challenge.  
  
Harry regretfully unbuttoned his comfortable, worn black trousers, throwing them next to his discarded shirt. He then removed his simple black shoes, setting them aside. Smoothing out his boxers, he picked up the black leather pants, lowering them cautiously to his feet. He stepped into them, grasping the belt and raising his back, pulling them up.  
  
They slid easily up his legs until his thighs, at which point the cool leather began to skid uncomfortably up his skin. Harry winced at the friction, tugging like mad until, finally, he had yanked the belt up to ride indecently on his hipbone.   
  
He zipped the fly, buckled the belt and then stood frozen, afraid to breath, let alone move. He finally relaxed, letting out the air from his lungs in a slow hiss. He was glad that his stomach was little more than tan skin over firm muscle - even half an inch of fat would have oozed over the belt, ruining the effect.  
  
He turned, looking at himself in a full-length mirror Malfoy had propped against the wall. He groaned, running a hand back through his black hair. The leather gloved his ass like wet, black tissue paper.  
  
But it would have to do. Malfoy wouldn't be able to contain himself when he saw Harry wearing _this_ - his most embarrassing outfit. In fact, he would hardly be able to control his temper when he saw him wearing _his _clothing - and knowing that he'd been rummaging through his room and precious dress book.  
  
It was just too perfect.  
  
Harry glanced at a clock resting on one of Malfoy's bedside tables, realizing that he'd spent far more time than he'd expected playing around in his enemy's bedroom. He had already missed his morning classes, and in fifteen minutes, lunch would begin.  
  
He grinned, throwing on his invisibility cloak, grabbing his clothing and walking toward the door, the pants gripping his every slight movement.  
  
This would be fun.  
  
===========================================================  
  
Draco was enjoying what he thought was to be a very relaxing lunch. With a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes before him and the prospect of forcing Harry to ingest a fouled potion hovering in the near future, things rarely got better for him.  
  
And then, just a few minutes later, Harry strolled in.   
  
At first, no one noticed the familiar sound of the Great Hall doors opening. A moment later, though, a Ravenclaw girl turned out of habit, gasping and dropping her spoon into her plum pudding. The girls next to her then turned, immediately turning back to gossip, shocked, amongst themselves; and from there it escalated until nearly everyone in the Hall had gawked, and many had begun discussing him in horror.  
  
Harry grinned lamely, tugging pants inconspicuously and continuing his stroll toward the Gryffindor table. Hermione, sitting next to Ron, was staring at him openmouthed, her suspended quill dropping huge blots of ink onto her unfinished Charms essay. Ron was staring as well, his open mouth revealing a small mountain of chewed and salivated food.  
  
Harry said to them easily, avoiding taking his seat in favor of continuing to stand. Hermione simply raised an eyebrow, her face white with shock.  
  
The _library_, Harry? she whispered instead, her eyes blank with disbelief.  
  
Ron had closed his mouth, chewing his food slowly. Three seats down from him, Seamus turned to Dean, a wicked smile on his face.  
  
I think I'll be hard for a week, he whispered mischievously, sending the other boy into appreciative laughter.  
  
No table was louder in its shocked gossip than that of the Slytherin table, whose inhabitants were all whispering loudly amongst themselves, grinning at the scandal and at the unexpected, and all too easy, chance to ridicule.  
  
Well, Drake, would you look at that, said Pansy smugly, taking a long sip of her pumpkin juice and absently stroking her long, silky hair.  
  
Not now Panse, I'm reading, the blonde murmured, turning a page of his Potions textbook and taking a small bite of his potatoes.  
  
Oh, I think you want to see this, Pansy purred, grinning twistedly. Potter has on the same shirt that I gave you for Christmas last year! You know, the pink silk one!  
  
The one I wore with ... wait, what the fuck?! Draco snapped, his head jerking up. His jaw immediately dropped; there was Potter, in all his silky, tight glory, wearing the exact same shirt. The only difference was that his was all too tight, and he wore the top buttons undone, leaving a tan strip of skin that led down to his unexposed stomach.  
  
Draco continued to gape, feeling a sudden wave of heat rush over him. He had never seen Harry wear anything so .. revealing, let along so achingly touchable.  
  
_Touchable?!_, Draco's mind gasped, immediately going wild. _No! NO!  
  
_And look at those pants, Blaise commented, a grin spreading across his face. He might as well wear a bloody wet t-shirt. They look so goddamn tight ..  
  
I wonder how he's managing to walk, Pansy laughed, taking a bite of a biscuit. You know, it's funny, Drake, but I could have sworn you had a pair just like that. Part of your collection that doesn't exist collection, if I recall correctly.  
  
Shut your violated lips, Pansy, Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes.  
  
Blaise, in contrast to Pansy, who seemed only calmly amused, was absolutely eating up the situation, and was thoroughly excited by it. He stood, throwing his arm high into the air.  
  
Yeah, Potter! he screamed, laughing. You work that ass!  
  
BLAISE, SIT THE FUCK DOWN! Draco shouted immediately, yanking his friend back to his seat with a quick jerk on the back of his shirt. A moment later the blonde's hard knuckles connected with the side of his friend's head, who winced painfully.  
  
Bloody hell, that hurt, he mumbled sourly, glaring at Pansy, who was laughing beside him.  
  
This is not fucking funny! Draco snarled, shoving away his beloved potatoes. Those are _my clothes! _They're tailored to fit _me_, and that's why it looks like Potter's been _poured into them_!  
  
Pansy repeated incredulously, frowning. But Drake, that's impossible! You have that Malfoy door on your private room. He could never have gotten in!  
  
Well somehow, _he did_, Draco snapped, scowling at the thought of Harry invading his quarters, rummaging through his things and defiling his portable closet.  
  
What are you going to do about it? Blaise asked, frowning a bit.  
  
Draco smirked, his silver eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.  
  
I'm going to murder his leather-clad arse, he muttered darkly, standing abruptly. He looked across the room to where Harry was still standing, his green eyes focused solely on him, daring him to do something about the theft.  
  
Draco nodded once in Harry's direction, jerking his head quickly toward the doors before storming out of the Great Hall, his robes flaring behind him. Harry watched him go, a smirk slowly forming on his lips.  
  
That's my cue, he whispered to himself, and ignoring the shocked looks on the faces of his friends, he followed Malfoy out into the entrance hall, smoothing the silk against his stomach as he went.  
  
Almost as soon as he entered the shadowy entrance hall, he felt Malfoy's hands snatch the delicate pink fabric of the stolen shirt at both of his shoulders. Before he could blink, he was shoved roughly against a stone wall, pinned by his enemy's arms.  
  
What the bleeding fuck do you think this is? Malfoy growled, his eyes not a half foot away from those of Harry, whose green eyes which were flickering playfully. Do you think this is fucking _funny_, Potter? Squeezing your ugly arse into _my fucking clothes_? How the hell did you get into the room!? Tell me now, you fucking piece of--  
  
Harry said suddenly, starling the other boy, who snapped his jaw and choose instead to scowl as he listened impatiently. I'm not stealing them. I'll give them back to you tonight.  
  
This isn't some kind of joke, Malfoy hissed, jerking Harry hard against the wall. I'm going to kill you for this, I fucking swear, Potter. I will.  
  
Murder me over a pink silk shirt? Harry grinned, a smirk that caused Malfoy's blood to boil. Oh, I doubt that. You'll feel better once they're back in your possession. Like I said ... tonight.  
  
You can't just _borrow _my things, Malfoy ranted, seething. What do you think I am, a goddamn _store_? I fucking swear, you're going to regret--  
  
Harry repeated calmly. He leaned forward, letting his nose brush slightly against that of Malfoy, who bristled and widened his furious silver eyes. Unless, of course, you want to take them back right _now_.  
  
Malfoy sneered at the comment, and not sure what to make of it, he released Harry and stepped back uneasily.  
  
he snapped, running a tense hand back through his white-blonde hair. Tonight, then.  
  
Harry smirked, nodding, and quickly brushed off the pink silk, letting his hand linger for an unnecessarily long moment on his tightly covered stomach. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to say his last comment, and wasn't up to contemplating his choice of words. All he knew was that the utter shock and confusion he'd summoned in the blonde's eyes had been worth the risk.  
  
See you later, then, Harry said calmly, strolling his way back into the crowded Great Hall. Draco watched him walk away, his eyes following his indecently clad arse as he went.  
  
_Don't let him get to you, _he couched himself. _This is all some kind of sick joke, meant to trick into looking at him in .. that way. It's wrong and he's just trying to sabotage you .. that and .. well, how could you not stare at it? It's squeezed into your fucking pants!  
  
You're fine. Just don't let yourself be fooled.  
  
_And yet, as Draco made his way, too, back into the Great Hall, he found himself thinking just how nice it felt to finally be decently fucked with. He was too used to being left alone, the feared ice prince of the most secretive House of all.  
  
He smirked to himself, settling himself back into his seat. Only Potter could spark that kind of fury in his cold, stagnated soul.  
  
=================================================================  
  
Well, happy Christmas to the people who thought I ought to write longer chapters, because you just got one! Thirteen long, lucky pages. Let's see, what to say ... oh, well, hmm. To the person (I forgot your name) who noticed that Snape was eating porridge with a fork in the last chapter - yes, he was, and it was an intentional mistake, because SNAPE CAN DO ANYTHING! Yes, and my writing was just reflecting his supreme glory over all utensils!  
  
On a happy note, this next chapter will be filled with slashy goodness. Oh yes, so much slashy goodness. Eating cookie dough ice cream in the rain while your lover strokes your wet hair kind of goodness! It will be so much fun to write. And fun to read as well, I hope.  
  
So everyone, have a lovely day/night and many happy orgasms. 


	11. Of Leather Pants and Lubrication Charms?

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: Draco has the word at the end, because he's just so much more fun to write and read than I am.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Friday _in the story.  
  
==================================================  
  
Draco Malfoy was sitting rather impatiently on a certain black leather sofa, strumming his fingers irately on its top, over which his arm was stretched. He glanced at a clock on the mantle of the fireplace; it was eight minutes past ten.  
  
That meant that Potter was _eight bloody minutes_ late.  
  
_Probably having some kind of sick Gryffindor orgy in my pants, _he thought to himself, a both disgruntled and disgusted look passing over his face. _Perhaps I ought to burn them once I get them back. I certainly wouldn't want to wear them again, but damn .. finding leather pants that fit well is a fucking miracle .. damn you, you bloody attention whore .. Potter .. and where the hell are you, anyway?!  
  
_He glared at the clock. Eleven minutes past ten.  
  
He could at least have the decency to be on time, Draco muttered under his breath, sighing quietly and continuing to stare at the freshly blazing fire. He lifted his left hand, whose fingers were curled around a red-yellow apple he'd summoned as a replacement dinner. He sunk his teeth into it, licking away a bead of juice from his lower lip as he thought, wondering if he knew any sort of scourging spells that could save his raped leather pants from certain death.  
  
He had refused to come down to dinner despite the raving of his two friends, who both insisted that a second confrontation with Potter and his might-as-well-be-exposed arse would be bloody hilarious and hotter even than _you_, Drake. He hadn't gone for it. He knew that seeing Potter still wearing _his_ clothing would either cause him to _Avada_ from across the room or challenge him into a fight.  
  
He wasn't fond of either option ... the second especially.  
  
_What was he playing at before? _Draco sneered, taking a second bite of his apple. _Unless you want to take them back _now?'_ As if I would ever want to see more than his ugly face. He can keep his body to himself, thank you very much.  
  
_And yet, a voice in his mind reminded him ... _you looked at his arse.  
  
I thought we went over this, _Draco thought to himself, mulling over his own words. _He was wearing my pants. I wanted said pants back, therefore I was staring at them as I watched them walk away, being allowed to be stolen by that freak. Had he been wearing someone _else's _outfit, I would never have looked.  
  
_He didn't really believe, however, that this was true, and thus continued to think on it. _I've looked at Pansy's arse before, after all, _Draco reasoned logically, _And I wouldn't screw her with a thirty-foot broomstick.  
  
_He smirked, satisfied with his reasoning, and leaned back into the sofa.  
  
  
  
His head jerked up immediately, and he spun around, his silver eyes glowing brighter than the embers of the fire.  
  
You're late, he spat, sneering at the newcomer.   
  
Harry was standing near the door, a single hand on his hip and his invisibility cloak, as well as a pair of clothes, slung over his forearm. He was smirking, his face flushed and healthy from all of the heated comments he'd received from his fellow Gryffindors that evening. It was a smirk that twisted Draco's insides, making him want to stand immediately and wipe it violently off the other boy's face.  
  
Instead, he sat patiently, narrowing his eyes further.  
  
You look like you just got back from a long snog, the blonde muttered, looking Harry over critically, frowning as his eyes flashed with anger. Was the Ravenclaw bitch taken with _my_ clothing?  
  
Oh really, is _that_ what this outfit is designed for? Harry shot back easily, bending down to carefully set his cloak and clothing on the floor. Draco sucked in his breath, glad for the shadows that filled the small room. Shagging random girls?  
  
If you must know that is not an _outfit_ of mine, Draco snapped in response, scowling. I have never worn that shirt with that particular pair of pants. That's _your_ colorful creativity at work, Potter.  
  
Is that a compliment? Harry grinned, brushing his fringe of messy raven hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand.  
  
_No, _it was not, Draco snarled, feeling anger begin to once again awaken inside of himself. Now that you're here, just take it off already. The sooner I can burn them and rid them of your scent and surely reeking bodily excretions, the better.  
  
Eager, huh? Harry answered, raising a single eyebrow, before nodding. Draco sneered to himself, his lips parting in his frustration.   
  
_Stop misinterpreting every bloody word that falls from Potter's lips, _he scolded himself. _It's starting to get disturbing.  
  
_Just change, Draco muttered darkly, glaring daggers at the other boy. He shrugged, bringing his fingers to his abdomen and quickly unbuttoning the first button.  
  
he smiled, blinking his green eyes, his face calm and amused at the blonde's impatience.  
  
He unbuttoned the remaining buttons at a reasonable speed, but for Draco, whose slightly widened eyes were locked on Harry, it seemed as if the other boy were purposefully taking his sweet, sweet time. He gaped as the pink silk finally parted, revealing a toned chest and flat stomach, an obvious reward of years of Quidditch training.  
  
Harry asked, surprised at the blank look that had fallen over his rival's face. Draco immediately blinked several times, jolting. He turned around, having had enough.  
  
Just give it to me, he hissed, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. I want my bloody stolen shirt.  
  
Harry snapped again, frowning severely at the short tone in the other's voice. He let the shirt slip from his shoulders, then threw it deftly at the back of Draco's still head.  
  
He yelped, then cursed when the pink silk suddenly fluttered over his face. His nose was immediately filled with scent: a musky blend of cinnamon and vanilla ... a warm, human scent that could only be described as that of Harry.  
  
He stayed frozen for a second, then ripped the shirt from his head, crumpling it defiantly into a small ball and throwing it at the fire. It landed atop the mantelpiece instead, covering the clock. As Draco swore under his breath, Harry, behind him, chuckled.  
  
Nice aim, he commented, glad that the other boy had turned toward the fire- he was feeling very self-conscious, the pit of his stomach swinging uncomfortably, at the thought of being openly topless. I can see why they made you Seeker, and not Chaser. You would have sucked in that position.  
  
Fuck off, Potter, he growled, his teeth grinding at the insult. Just take off your bloody pants.  
  
Excuse me? Harry repeated, his green eyes widening a bit at this.  
  
I'm sorry, _my_ bloody pants, Draco snapped. He let his eyes bore into the fire, determined not to turn around. He could not, under any circumstance, turn around.  
  
Right away, the raven-haired boy answered tartly. He unzipped the fly, a sound that seemed very loud and jarring to the blonde, who jerked slightly and then frowned.  
  
In the bathroom, Potter, he growled, pointing to its door without turning his head. Have you no fucking decency?  
  
But you're not even looking at me, Harry protested, scowling.  
  
It doesn't matter, just do it, he snarled, sinking deeper into the sofa in what may have looked, from the front, like a bit of a sulk. The other boy frowned, but shrugged, trailing over to the bathroom and stepping inside. Immediately, a dozen or so candles lit, filling the room with bronze-gold light.  
  
He shut the door behind him, getting one last look at Draco, who was slouched slightly, his eyes locked on the fire. The flames reflected eerily in his silver eyes, dancing like thoughts. It was a scene he was hesitant to shut the door on, but he did none the less.  
  
He reached down, loosening the buckle and then opening it completely. His fly being already unzipped, he simply gripped the sides of the pants, sliding them down easily.  
  
Until he got to the top of his thighs.  
  
He pushed and grunted, trying to shove the leather down. He only created more painful friction; they wouldn't go down an inch more. Harry began to sweat, panicking; he couldn't be bloody stuck in them!   
  
Malfoy would _kill him.  
  
_What the hell are you doing in there, Potter? a voice snarled as if on cue, muffled from being outside the door. Taking a relaxing bubble bath? How long does take to undress yourself?  
  
Uhh ... just a minute! Harry called lamely, pushing down as hard he could. The leather bunched, sliding down perhaps a centimeter more, but nothing else.  
  
You forgot your change of clothes by your cloak, too, the voice came again, sounding disgruntled. _Accio _them, would you? Just tell me before you open the door, I don't want to see any more of you than necessary.  
  
Yes, right, Harry called again, his shout hesitant and laced with desperation. He couldn't get the pants to slid down any further; it was completely hopeless. The only thing he could think to do was cut them off, but he had no sharp objects in hand, and the bathroom seemed only to contain towels and bathrobes, not knives and loose pieces of glass. That and, cutting the leather pants off seemed a lovely way to carve into his legs.  
  
He looked franticly around the room, his eyes wide. And then - a miracle!  
  
He waddled over to the bar of soap, taking it into his hand and attempting to shove it roughly between the skin of his right thigh and the tight leather. He groaned, watching as the soap only flaked apart.  
  
_Unbelievable_, he thought, becoming angry now. _Just bleeding unbelievable.  
  
_Potter, what the hell is going on in there? Malfoy's voice called again, this time sharper and filled with deeper impatience. You're been in there ten minutes and your only goal was to _take the pants off._ How hard is that to do?  
  
Harry called, wanting to explain, but then stopping himself immediately. There had to be a different way. Err ...  
  
What did you say? Draco snapped, scowling on the couch.   
  
I can't get them off! Harry blurted loudly, his cheeks darkening to a light red. They're stuck, okay? They're fucking _stuck_!  
  
They're .. _what_? Draco's voice called back tersely, his voice filled first with disbelief, then vague delight.  
  
They're stuck, Harry shouted back, grinding his teeth in humiliation. I can't get your fucking leather pants off! They must have shrunk or something!  
  
There was a long silence from the other side of the door. Then, a moment laughter, Harry heard the muffled, yet still quite loud sound of malicious laughter.  
  
Oh, shut the fuck up! Harry cursed through the door, his cheeks burning. It isn't funny! These are your pants, remember! You don't want them to be cut off!  
  
Cut them off and I'll cut off particular parts of yours, Potter, came the reply, followed by another fit of delighted, twisted amusement. I can't bloody _believe_ this, the Boy Who Lived .. can't get .. his pants off ..  
  
Lay off, Harry protested, slumping against the bathroom wall and frowning, looking rather miserable. Just .. just help me, okay?  
  
Help you take off my pants? Draco called back, still snickering. I'm not coming in there, if that's what you're looking forward to, Potter. No bloody way.  
  
Any ideas, then? Harry asked, staring intently at the door from which Draco's voice emanated. He heard a soft humming sound, as though the other boy were thinking.  
  
I know, he said, his voice dripping with cruel delight. Use a lubrication charm.  
  
Use a _what_? Harry gasped, his face contorting. The only time he'd ever heard of using a lubrication charm was from overhearing conversations between Seamus and Dean and .. well .. Draco's infamous letter to Hermione, the one that came complete with an attached list.  
  
You heard me, I can tell by the shock in your voice, Malfoy's own voice purred. He was obviously amused to the core, and it sickened Harry. He would have much preferred an infuriated, murderous Malfoy himself. It's easy. Just shove the tip of your wand in the pants and say the incantation.  
  
Sounds fun, Harry murmured back, his blush deepening. I .. err .. don't know any incantations for .. lubrication .. though ..  
  
What a surprise, Draco drawled, smirking royally to himself. Virgin Potter, never had to use a lubrication spell? Never encountered any squeaky doors, stubborn jars, you know .. _tight_ situations like that?  
  
Just tell me the incantation so that I can get the hell out of your pants, Harry snapped back, running a hand back through his messy hair and sighing. I want to get this over with.  
  
But I thought you _loved _my pants_, _Draco sneered back. Don't you want to wear them forever and ever?  
  
Go to hell and just tell me the incantation! Harry shouted through the door, scowling at the polished wood furiously. He heard a quiet, yet obviously over-exaggerated sigh from the other room.  
  
Fine, Potter, he drawled. _Lubridium strawticus.  
  
_Harry frowned, letting the silence settle around him before he fetched his wand from between the pants and its belt. He didn't want to do it this way, it seemed so .. inappropriate somehow, and yet, he had no choice.  
  
He slid the wand between the pants and his skin, wincing as he closed his eyes and quietly muttered the spell.  
  
_Lubridium strawticus, _he whispered, yelping when then tops of his thighs were suddenly coated in a silky-smooth, semi-thick gel-like pink substance. He pushed down on the pants tentatively; they slid down easily. He sighed with relief.  
  
I take it the spell worked, then, Draco purred, feeling suddenly very superior. He had been listening closely to every sound Harry made, from his yelp to his relieved sigh.   
  
Harry mumbled irately. He pushed the pants aside, disgusted. It did, but now I'm all covered in this sticky .. pink .. stuff.  
  
How terrible for you, Potter, Draco snapped contentedly, running a hand back through his silky hair. You could have just used an enlarging charm on the pants, you know.  
  
Harry froze, lifting his eyes to the door, green blazing with fury. He was right, he could have certainly done that .. it would have .. why didn't he think of that before?!  
  
You twisted arsehole! Harry screamed at the door, picking at his soaked, sticky boxers in disgust. Why didn't you tell me that before, when I asked you for ideas?!  
  
Oh, I don't know, Potter, Draco answered smoothly. It just .. slipped my mind. Until a moment ago, I mean.  
  
I'm going to murder you when I get out of here! Harry warned, glaring daggers at the door. You .. you .. god! Thanks a lot! Now I'm all covered in this crap!  
  
So take a shower, Draco answered, his voice steady and calm, as before. You _are_ in a bathroom, you know.  
  
Harry looked around, scowling, and quickly caught sight of a spacious sunk-in bathtub with a large shower faucet overlooking it.  
  
Fine, I will, you crazy, easily amused bastard, he mumbled disgruntledly, walking toward the bath. He turned on the warm water, testing it with his fingers before using his hands to peel off his sticky boxers. He threw them aside, sighing.  
  
A moment later, he turned on the shower, stepping into the pounding rain of water. He breathed in deeply as the water cascaded down onto him, soaking his hair into straight, tangled shiny locks and darkening the tan on his toned body.  
  
Outside and still seated on the warm leather couch, Draco's laughter at having pulled one over on Harry had faded, replaced by the lingering presence of a single repressed thought.  
  
_He's naked in that shower.  
  
You are sick, Draco, _he thought to himself, crossing his arms in a gesture of stubbornness and allowing himself to sink deeper into the plush black leather. _Sick, sick, sick ... all right, new topic. Let's think about .. ahh ... Quidditch! Yes, bloody manly Quidditch.  
  
Actually, the reason he has that body is probably because he plays ...  
  
All right fine, new topic, _he mentally snarled. _Like women .. yes, women. Like ... Pansy, yes, Panse who is my best friend .. who I .. talk with and .. sometimes scheme with .. annoying, yet oddly reliable Pansy ..   
  
_Oh, fuck this, Draco swore aloud, letting his eyes bore deeply into the fire as he listened to the steady rain of the shower. This is fucking ridiculous. I'm paying way to much attention to this .. this distorted way of thinking.  
  
What's that, Malfoy? a voice called, strongly muffled by the pounding water. Harry had heard his ranting, and had paused in rubbing himself down to call out, thinking the other boy had been screaming at him to hurry up.  
  
Nothing, Potter! Draco shouted back, frowning deeply, his eyebrows burrowing. He let his voice quiet.   
  
Nothing at all.  
  
================================================================  
  
**Draco:** As Anthea (the crazy, perverted bitch who has kidnapped me against my will) is currently away seeing some new Prisoner of somewhere movie, I've decided to hack into her inbox and answer some of her _kind, kind_ reviews. -snickers- Oh yes.  
  
Let's begin. Here's a good one. It's from a Mel Tan.  
  
_hey! That was good! sry i did not review at all for i just started. Oh and just a little request... do u mind if u make Draco and Harry be a little more SEXY? Thanx! Oh and ROCK ON MAN!! U ROCK!  
_   
All right, first of all, SHE DOES NOT ROCK. She is an EVIL, EVIL woman with a PERVERTED, TWISTED MIND who should be LOCKED UP IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION. And secondly, I CANNOT POSSIBLY get sexier. Your imagination is just not creative enough. Moving on.  
  
And this lovely one is from Lirimaer Malfoy.  
  
_Harry & Draco sitting in the Pitch, k-i-s-s-i-n-g  
First comes lust, then comes sex, then comes, erm, both! Yeah. Right. Sorry, wasn't supposed to have coffee for lunch, but I did anyways! Love your story so far and write more soon!  
  
Luvs n Hugs  
Lirimaer  
  
_It's called de-caf, psycho. Your song is amusing, yet unrealistic: WHY would we want to do it on the Quidditch pitch when I have a BIG, EXPENSIVE FLOATING BED to orgasm in? Points for sick creativity, though. You should lend some of your obviously twisted imagination to Mel Tan. Oh yes, and another error: I WOULD NEVER SCREW HARRY POTTER. Unless, you know, I drank as much coffee as you obviously have and then thus lost my mind. Also, on a final note .. I highly doubt that I am related to you. Damn impostors!  
  
I should also probably mention Juujinkan's review, which made Anthea swoon like a teenager girl in heat. She loves you, and that review is her pride and joy. She refused to delete it from her mailbox, and read it once before doing this chapter to inspire her. -rolls eyes- Some good that did. So anyway, thanks a lot, bastard, for encouraging her.  
  
Anyway, yawn, this has gotten boring. I'm going to go make some raw meat for the dinner of the vegetarian bitch-captor. I hope it has Mad Cow Disease .. not that that would change much .. later much, losers. Oh, yeah.   
  
AND REMEMBER NOT TO REVIEW! If you discourage her, maybe she'll stop! DO THE RIGHT THING. NO REVIEWING!!! 


	12. Of Potions, Passion and Passing Out

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: Below.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Friday night _in the story.  
  
==================================================  
  
Draco closed his eyes, leaning his head back gingerly onto the top of the couch. He took in deep breaths, his slender chest heaving as he listened to the steady, muffled sound of the running shower.  
  
_Hurry up, damn you, _his mind raced as he breathed in and out, trying his best to keep his mind calm and silent. _Get out of the shower ... put your clothes back on ... out of shower ...  
  
_Minutes after Harry had called out to him, he'd stood and walked over to the desk, franticly bottling the complete (if also ruined) potion into a small, clear vile for the other boy to take. He'd then paced the small room, frustrated that the clock was still covered by his pink silk shirt; somehow, he didn't dare touch it.  
  
And after ten or so minutes, he'd sat back down, struggling mentally to keep his thoughts repressed and silent. He didn't want to think anything that he would later regret.  
  
He heard the water slow as the shower was turned off, the pounding slowing to a mere patter and then ... silence. The glass door was slid open, and he listened as Harry stepped onto the floor, shaking his wet hair.  
  
_Finally_, his mind sighed with relief. _He's out of the shower at long last.  
  
_Draco let his silver eyes snap open. He blinked, staring up at the shadowed ceiling before lifting his head and running a hand though his slightly mussed, chin-length hair. He stood, walking over to the desk and picking up the small vile as he waited for Harry to emerge.  
  
He didn't have to wait long at all.  
  
a calm voice said to his left. Draco raised his eyes from the potion-making set, turning toward the sound. An instant later, his eyes widened and he nearly dropped the glass vile that lay grasped in his sweaty hand.  
  
Harry frowned, tilting his head a bit to the side as he watched shock and confusion mingle in the blonde's glowing eyes.   
  
He was wearing only a plush white towel that he had tied around his waist.   
  
Draco, having momentarily lost control, let his eyes trail greedily up and down the raven-haired boy's body, taking in the beads of water that still clung to his moist, tan skin, his soaked, jet-black hair that perfectly framed his curious face and bright green eyes ... his toned chest and flat stomach ... the thin line of black hair that trailed down from his navel and disappeared into the white of the towel ...  
  
Are you all right there? Harry asked meekly, feeling blood rush into his warm cheeks.  
  
Draco blinked, snapping himself back into reality. He scowled, though in reality it was a grimace too fearful to be truly intimidating.  
  
he snarled, taking a large step backward. What do you think you're ... put some _clothes_ on!  
  
Relax, geeze, said Harry indignantly, putting his hands up into the air defensively. Don't be such a prude! It's like you've never seen a guy in a towel before ... don't you Slytherins shower after practice like everyone else?  
  
Of course we do! Draco snapped, frowning deeply.  
  
Why the drama over this, then? Harry asked, letting a trace of curiosity creep into his voice. You should be used to it.  
  
Well I'm fucking not, Draco retorted, setting the vile down on the desk with an audible snap. If you _must_ know, I prefer to shower alone. I'm not fond of putting my body on display as _you_ apparently are.  
  
Putting myself on display? Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. You're one to talk, with your million galleon wardrobe! You're much more self-conscious about how you look than I am, Malfoy.  
  
I was referring to parading my skin, not my style, the blonde snapped. Just put something on! Put _anything _on!  
  
Harry said simply, his green eyes glowing with anger. I'm quite comfortable just as I am, thank you.  
  
Fine then, you Gryffindor slut, Draco growled, watching Harry with sharp eyes as he walked over to the black couch and sat stubbornly down. See if I care.  
  
But he did care, care so much that it was an internal struggle not to fetch the other boy's invisibility cloak and throw over his body. Instead he was forced to stare, unable to tear his eyes away, as he picked up the vile and walked over to the leather couch himself.  
  
He sat down quickly, making sure to keep at least a few feet of space between himself and the raven-haired boy, who was staring into the fire. The flickering orange light did wonders for his tan skin, allowing it to glow copper in the small room, and his green eyes were vibrant and alive with the reflection of the flames within them.  
  
Draco jumped slightly when the other boy turned to him, his face calmer now, almost friendly.  
  
Is that it? he asked quietly, motioning toward the vile in the blonde's pale hand. I bet you're eager for me to try it. Hoping it'll kill me, I suppose.  
  
I can think of more honorable ways to kill you than with your own ruddy, fucked-up potion, Draco answered, some of his usual venom draining away. I don't know what it'll do, but I doubt that it will result in death. You're not _that_ miserable with Potions.  
  
Why thank you, Harry replied sarcastically, holding out his hand. Just give it to me, won't you? We'll see what it'll do.  
  
Draco said quickly, handing off the vile. Just keep in mind what it's _supposed_ to do: it's an adrenaline potion, meant to increase your senses greatly; sight, sound, scent. Unless you _really_ screwed it up, it should be some variation of that.  
  
Harry said, staring down at the blue liquid held in his hand. He uncorked the vile, lifting it in the air. To you, my great teacher! I could never have fucked this up without you.  
  
Just drink the damn thing, Draco snapped, sliding away another few inches. _The sooner he tries it, the sooner we can both go our separate ways.  
  
_Harry brought the small vile to his lips, downing its contents quickly. He swallowed thickly, a look of disgust forming on his face as it slid down his throat. He swallowed spit a few more times, getting rid of the taste, waiting ...  
  
But nothing happened.  
  
Feel any different? Draco asked after a few long seconds. Harry shook his head, his wet hair sending a few drops of water into the air.  
  
Not at all, he answered, frowning. Maybe I messed it up so badly that it doesn't do _anything_ to its drinker!  
  
Even _you_ aren't that lucky, Potter, Draco drawled. He kept his eyes locked on Harry, waiting for any adverse effects to appear; abnormal swelling, a sudden rash, boils, a dramatic change of skin color ... but nothing became visible.  
  
Harry sighed with relief, sinking deeper into the black sofa. Draco shook his head, trying his best to look disheartened that he wouldn't be dragging his student up to the hospital wing after all.  
  
That's disappointing, he said tartly, standing and walking over to the desk, where he began to clean up the remaining potion and the rest of his potion-making set. I was hoping you'd at _least_ cough up some blood ...  
  
Oh, shut it Malfoy, Harry snapped from the couch, glaring once again into the fire. His skin was beginning to dry, its clean scent wafting up to his nose ... the scent of own skin, mingled a bit with fresh sweat ... all overpowered by a hint of the perfumed soap he'd found in the shower, and beneath that ... the smell of strawberry-scented lubrication ...   
  
_Wait a second ...  
  
_Harry sniffed the air, gasping when he was suddenly overwhelmed by scent: the ash of the embers, the woody smell of the burning fire, the musky leather, the dank dungeon air ...  
  
Uhm, Malfoy? he whispered, turning toward the other boy. He had his back turned to Harry, his hands busy as they put away the potion-making kit piece by piece. He could sense the reeking, varied ingredients of the kit, the dust on the bottles ... and then, above all of it ...  
  
The scent of smooth, pale skin, perfumed by lavender bodywash and vaguely scented with old cologne .. his skin was a smooth scent, a mix of cream and ginger, vanilla and cinnamon ..  
  
What is it, Potter? the boy snarled from the desk, and Harry immediately winced, clasping his hands to his ears.  
  
Don't talk so loud! the raven-haired boy cried. He could have sworn that he had just heard Draco shout across the room, his harsh voice still echoing in his ears.  
  
What are talking about, Potter, I barely raised my voice, the blonde snapped, spinning around. He frowned deeply, however, when he took in the sight of Harry protecting his ears, a hushed wincing sound emanating from his lips.  
  
Are you all right? he spoke, careful to keep his voice so far below a whisper that only a person inches away could hear his words. Is the potion taking affect?  
  
Harry breathed, closing his eyes in pain. Your voice, it's giving me such a headache .. please be .. softer ..  
  
It's not my voice, Draco whispered, walking over to the couch. Your mind is overwhelmed with too much sensation. The overload is expressing itself through pain.  
  
Harry winced, bending forward so that he was folded into a cross between a fetal and sitting position. He gently rocked his head, his skin paling as he tried his best to block out the hundreds of sounds and smells bombarding his mind.  
  
Draco watched him from a few feet away, standing above him. His eyes had softened from irritation to a subdued sort of compassion, traces of guilt forming to lace his usually reckless heart. He had forced him to take the potion ... it was his fault that the other boy was needlessly in pain now.  
  
His mind attempted to rationalized the choice ... _the potion should wear off in an hour or so, most likely less ... it was his own fault, he created it incorrectly with his own hands ... he'll never learn the art of potion-making if he can't understand the delicacy of the subject ... _but hidden in the beating within his chest, feeling prevailed.  
  
He felt guilty as all hell.  
  
I'm sorry, Potter, he whispered regretfully, sitting himself down on the couch next to the unmoving boy, taking care to place several feet between them.  
  
Harry whispered, the word leaving his lips in a quiet hiss.   
  
Do you want me to take you up to Madame Pomfrey? Draco asked quietly, looking him over with tense silver eyes. You're in pain. Surely she can give you something for your headache.  
  
How long .. will it last? Harry gasped, the hands clasped over his ears tangling into his raven hair, scraping his scalp. Draco saw this and frowned more deeply, his body stiffening in alarm.  
  
Somewhere between thirty minutes and an hour, he answered honestly. Since you seem to have gotten the basic intention of the potion down, the time frame should be the same. Perhaps longer rather than shorter, though .. since you made the potion stronger than it's supposed-  
  
Not worth it then, Harry whimpered, interrupting the blonde. He was unable to follow too many words in one go, his head throbbing with pain. I'll stay .. here .. until ..  
  
Draco said quickly, his face drained of blood. His heart pounded within his chest, and he frowned at the strange feeling over taking him .. an estranged mix of guilt, and above that .. a strong desire to fix what he had done .. to ease some of the raven-haired boy's unfair pain ..  
  
I'll be right here with you, he continued suddenly, the words tumbling from his mouth without having been first considered in his mind. You'll be fine.  
  
And with that, he reached out his hand, resting it gingerly on the other boy's shoulder. He brushed his palm over the tense muscle there, rubbing his thumb softly across his shoulder blade.  
  
Harry gasped, his eyes opening at the touch. Immediately, warmth flooded his body, the sensation the touch created akin to pleasure far deeper than that summoned by any self-created orgasm he'd ever had.  
  
He groaned, letting his eyes slide closed once again. Draco jerked in surprise, not expecting that kind of reaction from the other boy - he'd been ready for a rejection, in all honesty - but kept his hand steady none the less.  
  
You okay? he asked tentatively, still gently stroking Harry's shoulder with his thumb.  
  
You're so warm, Harry mumbled, feeling his body sink into a thick feeling of physical contentment. And you smell .. like so much .. human and vanilla, and spices and .. mmph ..  
  
Ehrm, yes, Draco stuttered, feeling heat rush into his cheeks. But are you in pain?  
  
Harry murmured, his body growing limp as his heart began to pound. No, just .. your voice doesn't hurt anymore ..  
  
Draco frowned deeply, his eyes taking in the other boy. He felt panic swell in his chest; the other boy didn't appear to be thinking over anything that came out of his mouth.  
  
The potion might be causing you to hallucinate, Harry, he said warningly, sliding unconsciously closer to the raven-haired boy. I want you just to relax. Don't think about anything. Just relax.  
  
Harry whimpered, still feeling deliciously alive with the heightened sensation of the blonde's touch. He sighed, following his nose to the other boy's scent as slowly, yet without any hesitation, he slumped over and nuzzled his head into the other's shoulder.  
  
Draco froze, his jaw dropping as he stared down at Harry's limp body, half-curled onto his own. The raven-haired boy's head was resting against his shoulder, the jet-black strands spilling onto his pale neck.  
  
What are you doing, Potter? Draco forced himself to utter, whispering under his breath. His body was tense, stiff and frozen, a stark contrast to that of the other boy, whose breathing was slow and calm.  
  
So warm, Harry murmured, sighing both from exhaustion and subdued happiness. And your scent .. mmm .. and ..  
  
Draco gasped as the other boy suddenly licked his neck, biting his flesh gently before letting his head to drop lifelessly once again onto his shoulder.  
  
he murmured into his neck, leaving Draco to stare out into the dying fire with wide eyes and slightly trembling hands.  
  
_He's completely out of it, Draco .. get your delusional mind out of the gutter.. you are _not _enjoying this. It's wrong, and it's your own goddamn fault that you're stuck in the middle of it with him ..  
  
_His cheeks were burning, his breath quickening as he felt Harry's warm breath condense on his throat, steady and slow. He looked down at the boy, blinking at his moist, parted lips.  
  
_He's warm as well .. and bloody adorable .. gods, no! You need to deny .. to deny this .. deny it all .. not happening .. never going to happen, not happening now ..  
  
_Still alive, Potter? Draco murmured, his voice muffled by the dark, tousled hair just underneath his lips.  
  
Harry sighed, a sigh that was, in Draco's mind, peaceful and content.  
  
Draco answered simply, sighing himself in a much more miserable way. He silenced his mind, pushing away every thought - he couldn't bear the mental struggle any longer. Instead, he let go, a deep calm settling around him.  
  
_Oh, screw this. It's happening.  
  
_He turned his eyes back to the raven-haired boy resting atop him, his silver orbs glowing with the reflection of the fire. He reached out his hand, cupping his tan cheek and stroking it gently with his thumb.  
  
He then leaned forward, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips firmly to those of the other boy.  
  
Harry stirred, his eyes fluttering open for a moment and then closing once again as he relaxed, letting Draco's lips move gently against his own. He whimpered at the contact, heat rushing though his body like a flood of warm water, stirring his insides blissfully. He lifted his own head as much as he could, pressing his lips back, moving them slowly as longing settled within him.  
  
He winced when Draco pulled away, comforted only by the fact that his thumb was still slowly stroking his cheek. He opened his eyes, locking his green orbs with the flickering silver above him.  
  
In the back of mind, his rationality was screaming that it was wrong, terribly wrong ... but in the face of reality, a moment of pure comfort and contentment, the voice was little more than a whisper.  
  
Why did you do that? Harry breathed, his lips fading from a near-smile to a curious frown.  
  
Don't talk, Draco soothed, moving his hand gently from Harry's cheek to his warm throat. I told you, just relax. I won't do anything to hurt you.  
  
the raven-haired boy murmured, the world above him drifting in and out of focus. He gasped gratefully when Draco leaned down for a second kiss, capturing his lips between his own. He kissed back eagerly, lifting a hand to weakly grasp the blonde's shirt.  
  
You can trust me, Draco breathed when they broke apart, smirking for a moment as Harry caught his breath. Then he kissed him again, and again and over again, moving soft lips against his own until his heart was pounding, his body limp against that of the other boy, his breathing heavy and his mind blank. He could feel his arousal aching beneath the towel, and he wished for a moment that his mind was not so blurry .. he wanted to think, to understand ..  
  
_Why was this happening?  
  
_ Draco's lips pulled away from his own, warm and moist and deeply flushed from the minutes of bliss they had just shared. It was simple, and it was in nowhere near enough, but somehow Harry could see just from looking into the other boy's terrified silver eyes that it was all that he could handle.  
  
You okay? he whispered, blinking his green eyes. Draco looked down at him, startled, and frowned.  
  
he whispered distantly, his hand running gently through his raven hair. Harry complied, letting his eyes drift closed, the sound of the other boy's heartbeat steady in his ear.  
  
He opened his lips to say something, but suddenly found that he could not think of the words, nor indeed any word at all. He breathed out, sighing as exhaustion overtook him, the scents and sounds and touch of the world fading into blackness.  
  
Draco stared down at the boy who lay clumsily on his shoulder, breathing shallowly in a steady rhythm. He was asleep, he could tell, the strain of the potion having finally overtaken him.  
  
_You used him.  
  
_He let his hand continue to run through the other boy's hair, his eyes locked on his flushed, vulnerable face and swollen, parted lips.  
  
Sleep well, you damn perfect fool, he whispered, sighing as he turned his silver eyes to the dying fire, now little more than a pile of ash and glowing orange embers.  
  
_If only it could be real.  
  
================================================================ _  
  
I am all sick-ish this morning, blargh. I actually finished this chapter last night, but I had such a headache and felt so I'm going to puke-ish that I just collapsed in bed and decided to proofread the chapter ... well, right now.   
  
Much love to everyone who reviewed, you guys are the best. I hope you enjoyed this chapter ... I hope that it wasn't too fluffy as well ... I tried my best. Speak to you all again later ... have wonderful days ... sigh, oww.  
  
Damn headache. I wish I were Harry, I could use some kisses myself ... 


	13. 125 Points and One Great Squeeze

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: Below. This is really quite the odd chapter ... oo;.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Saturday morning _in the story.  
  
==================================================  
  
Harry let his eyes flutter open, blinking sleepily at the murky morning light as an image of the room around him came into focus. He was staring up at a stone ceiling, and as he turned his head, he saw a great fireplace, ashes and dying embers settled within it.  
  
He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He was frowning, his mind clouded with confusion; he couldn't remember having fallen asleep on the black leather couch. He remembered only being handed the vial, drinking its bitter contents .. and then, he recalled pain, throbbing pain .. and so many thoughts, too many scents and sensations .. a distant voice of concern ..  
  
_Draco.  
  
_His sleepy eyes shot open at the name, and he looked around franticly for any sign of the other boy. Sadly, however, he was alone in the secret room, a fact that deepened his frown. Not so much as the lingering scent of the blonde's skin remained ... or if it did, Harry was no longer capable of detecting it.  
  
He sighed, shifting his position and thus forcing his skin to slide away from the patch of warm leather he'd created and onto a much cooler surface. He hissed at the sudden change in temperature, shivering.  
  
_Damn, it's really cold in here without the fire going ...  
  
_He looked across himself to see if he were wearing socks, at which point his jaw dropped. He swallowed hard as blood flooded his cheeks, burning them red.  
  
Holy crap! he yelped, drawing his knees up to his heaving chest as he realized ... he wasn't wearing _anything at all_. He almost immediately toppled over, rolling off the sofa only to land with a soft thud next to a damp towel, which he threw hurriedly over his middle.  
  
_Why_, his mind panicked, _did I fall asleep stark bloody naked?!  
  
_He panted, struggling to remember the answer, as an image of a certain conceited blonde suddenly floated through his head.  
  
_Malfoy wouldn't have .. he couldn't have seen me naked .. ohh, shit .. no, he wouldn't have, the towel, it must have fallen off ... wait, yes, I was wearing the towel because I had taken a shower, because .. of that sticky crap that the bastard tricked me into .. oh ..  
  
_He sighed with relief as the memory flooded into him, though his cheeks were still a flaming red. The idea of Malfoy seeing him in the nude, well .. it sent uncomfortable waves through his stomach, shifts and drops of nervousness.  
  
But the thought of seeing the blonde in little more than a rectangle of terry cloth ...  
  
_Absolutely disgusting, _his mind answered immediately, dissipating the image as Harry squirmed, restless, beneath the towel. _Why would you even think of that? Get your mind out of the gutter, and get some clothes on. And what time is it, anyway?  
  
_Harry glanced toward the clock, smiling a bit when he saw the pink silk still draped over the mantle. He stood, wrapping the towel more tightly about his taut stomach, and walked over to it, lifting the silky fabric to note the time.  
  
_8:27.  
  
Oh, shit, _Harry winced, turning back to the room as he began to scan it for his clothing. _Ron is going to be out of his mind when he figures out that I spent the night .. well, not in my dorm like I bloody well should've .. awe crap, clothes! Where are my clothes?  
  
_He searched the area near the door several times, knowing full well that he'd set his extra set of clothing down near there the night before. He crawled on the floor and checked beneath the furniture, sneezing at the dust. He rummaged through the bathroom, finding only a wet shower and a foggy mirror.  
  
_He must have showered not too long ago .. argh, damn you Malfoy! Why couldn't you have kicked me awake or something?!  
  
_Even the sticky leather pants had disappeared. Harry sighed, walking over to the bedroom and sticking his head in; the room was dark, everything in it appearing dusty and completely untouched. He and Malfoy hadn't gone near the bedroom last night anyway, after all.  
  
Harry sighed grievously, breath leaving his lips in a loud hiss. He couldn't find his clothes anywhere in the small apartment, a fact that was slowly making his blood boil. It was around this time that he spotted it.  
  
A lone piece of parchment sitting rather inconspicuously on the corner of the desk, all of the potion-making supplies having long been cleared away. Harry walked over to it, picking it up with a sour look on his face.  
  
_Morning, Potter. Just to let you know ... I have returned the favor.  
Have a lovely day, Malfoy  
  
_Harry scowled, crumpling the piece of parchment in his hand into a tight ball. He pursed his lips as he thought murderously, his green eyes flickering with deep anger.  
  
_That insufferable prat, _his mind growled indignantly. _I swear to the gods, I'll get you back for this trick. _He threw the ball into the dead fire, watching out of the corner of his eye as it caused a small puff of ash to appear.  
  
What am I going to do now? Harry said aloud, his voice sulky and miserable. The Gryffindor tower is almost halfway across the castle .. and fuck, he has my Invisibility Cloak as well! Gods .. I'll kill you for this one, Malfoy ..  
  
He was still mumbling to himself as he walked over to the mantle, snatching the pink silk shirt from the clock and throwing it onto himself furiously, not bothering to meddle with the tight buttons.  
  
_I might as well give him what he wants before he dies, _Harry thought distantly as he stormed out of the room and into the deserted dungeon corridor, his body shivering at the cold air.   
  
_I hope you enjoy this, Malfoy.  
  
===============================================================  
  
_Seventeen minutes later, Harry pushed the doors to the Great Hall open roughly, thundering inside with a miserable scowl on his face. He swept through the gap between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, not turning his head to look when a certain raven-haired sixth year spit her oatmeal back into its bowl, nor when dozens eyes snapped to his arse as he walked on.  
  
He didn't so much as blink at the horrified, pale looks of Hermione and Ron as he sat himself down rather ruefully, snatching a blueberry Danish and shoving it angrily into his mouth.  
  
Ron stuttered, swallowing his large clump of chewed bacon. He turned to look cluelessly at Hermione, whose wide brown eyes were locked on Harry, her inked quill having just recently been dropped into her plate of scrambled eggs.  
  
What are you _wearing_, mate? Ron tried at last, still gaping. I mean, I recognize that shirt, but what happened to the pants?  
  
A better question would be, Harry, why aren't you wearing_ any_ pants? Hermione huffed more than said from her place, her cheeks tinted pink. And Ronald was just telling you that you never came back to the Tower last night ... where were you?  
  
Stop asking me questions, Harry snapped, licking a smear of blueberry glaze from the corner of his mouth. You sound like my ruddy mother.  
  
Mate, we'd be insane not to ask about _this_, Ron commented weakly.  
  
Harry, you just walked into the Great Hall wearing a _towel, _Hermione picked up harshly, picking her quill from her eggs with burrowed brows. A _towel_ and a shirt that the gods _know_ wasn't meant for a normal young man.  
  
I like it, Harry growled. It feels good against my skin.  
  
Ron paled at this, quickly taking a sausage and ramming it into his mouth.  
  
That's not the point, Hermione scolded darkly. Tell me Harry, is this some kind of strange _degression?_ Will tomorrow be just the towel, and Monday morning you'll parade in here _completely_ naked?  
  
Just work on your paper and mind your own less interesting business, Harry scowled, taking another large bite of his Danish. I'm fine, okay?  
  
Right, and my Potions grade is on level with that of Neville, she snapped back harshly, frowning. Let's face it, Harry, you've been acting like .. well, as if you'd lost your mind.  
  
Have to agree with her there, Ron piped, chewing slowly.  
  
That's low, Harry said carefully, sending her a dark glare.  
  
And anyway, _where were you_? Hermione rambled on, her eyes alive now with fury. Where did you spend the night? Ron and I are your friends, Harry, we care about you and we deserve to know where .. where ..  
  
Harry frowned as Hermione began to stutter, her face paling as her eyes widened at something looming just behind his shoulder. He paused, then spun his head around to see for himself.  
  
Mr. Potter, a dark voice drawled above him, sneering down at the Gryffindor breakfast table. Perhaps now would be a good time to refresh you on the finer points of what we like to deem .. the code of dress.  
  
Harry paled, scowling up at the Potions Master with infuriated green eyes.  
  
Firstly, while Saturday is a day throughout which relaxed dress is permitted, Snape continued on dryly. Hogwarts does require .. _everyday_, Potter .. that each and _every_ student wear either pants, a skirt or a suitable full-robe. Yes, even _you _are not above this requirement. And I see you wearing neither.  
  
It's a skirt, Harry hissed, narrowing his eyes.  
  
Twenty points for so insolently attempting to avoid eminent punishment, Snape snarled, frowning down on him. And fifty points for the actual violation of dress. Go and put some pants on, Potter. We have seen _enough_.  
  
I doubt that, Harry murmured loudly, adverting his eyes.  
  
Twenty points for such a disgusting insinuation, Snape growled. Button that .. shirt as well, Potter, or better yet, find something a sane man might wear.  
  
I have a question, Harry hissed back. How many points would you take off our House if I flashed you, here and now?  
  
Hermione and Ron both gasped, their faces paling. Ron's lips twisted into a disgusted, confused frown.  
  
Thirty-five points for that shameless, lurid remark! Snape shouted shrilly. Return to your dorm and change immediately, Potter! I will not tell you a second time!  
  
And with that, he spun around and swept himself back to the Head Table, his black robes billowing in his wake.  
  
You've lost it completely, mate, Ron said quietly at last, his lips twitching. I mean, that was .. one-hundred and twenty-five points for a _towel!  
  
_I can count, Ron, Harry snapped darkly, taking a final bite of his Danish, chewing the warm pastry with furious, violent passion. He glanced toward the Slytherin table, wanting to see the haughty smirk on the blonde's face, his gloating eyes and victorious aura as he laughed and pointed with his friends.  
  
He wasn't there.  
  
Harry frowned, anger fading away as he realized this. Pansy was absent as well, in fact, leaving only Blaise, who was standing and slipping pieces of fruit into his pockets. His lips fell open, his frown deepening as it all sunk in.  
  
_He wasn't here to watch any of it.  
  
_Somehow, that made it all so much less fulfilling.  
  
I'm going up to find some pants, Harry said distantly to his two thoroughly shocked and mangled friends, who both watched him stand with pale faces.  
  
Try not to lose any more points from our House on the way back, Hermione commented with unusual venom, her mood having been completely destroyed even before nine in the morning. Harry nodded at her grimly, not wanting a fight.  
  
He turned and began to make his way back to Gryffindor Tower, tugging his towel up as he went. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the notion that, despite a very eventful breakfast, he was missing a crucial piece of the entire demented situation.  
  
===============================================================  
  
Pansy called, rapping her knuckles hard on the dark mahogany door to Draco's private bedroom. You're going to miss breakfast.  
  
F'off, Panse, a muffled, very disgruntled voice called back. Pansy smiled, turning around and leaning her back and long, silky hair against the door.  
  
But Draaaco, she shouted smoothly, It's Saturday morning, and they'll have Daaanishes. We both know how you love your bluuueberry Daaanishes ..  
  
If you don't go the _hell_ away, I'm going to air your up-the-arse panties out in the library. I _mean_ it this time, you insufferable woman.  
  
Long night, dear? she asked, letting the sing-song tone drop somewhat from her voice.  
  
You have no idea, the voice grumbled back.  
  
Hangover, lovely? she tried, raising her elegant eyebrows.  
  
Of a mental sort, I guess, the voice called, followed by a loud groan. I want to _sleep_, Panse. Fucking _sleep_ all fucking _day_.  
  
You have to tell me what happened first, Pansy half-called, half-sulked, turning back to face the door. Drake, I've heard that voice before. It's the I have just experienced one of the few apexes of my life' voice. You can't hide it from me.  
  
Go to breakfast, Panse. Just _go.  
  
_I'm standing outside this door all day until you tell me, she shouted loudly, frowning incredulously. I'm your best friend! I'm here for you and I _deserve_ to know! At least about all of the important shit!  
  
the voice screamed back, and in an instant the door swung open, revealing the blonde's roomy private quarters. Pansy stepped inside, a self-satisfied smirk on her face, and shut the door firmly behind her.  
  
Now pour your heart out, sweetie, she said sweetly, walking toward the floating black bed in which Draco lay buried beneath the bedcoverings, his head shoved into a silky black pillow. He sighed when he heard the door slam shut and sat up slowly, blinking darkly at his intruder.  
  
I hate you sometimes, Panse, he muttered sleepily. I _really_ hate you.  
  
she hummed gently, walking up the miniature set of stairs and settling herself cross-legged on the bed, near the blonde's outstretched calves. Just tell me what's on your mind.  
  
It's complicated, Draco snapped, wishing deeply that he had never let the girl into his bedroom.  
  
Just start at the beginning, she soothed, resting her head cockily in her hand and smirking. It can't be all _that_ bad, dear, if you let me in.  
  
I lost control last night, he whispered harshly, frowning. That's all.  
  
Lost control? Pansy repeated, her eyes widening in surprise. What does _that_ mean? Did you hurt someone badly?  
  
Draco snapped, sighing. I didn't.  
  
You didn't kill anyone? Pansy gasped, paling a little.  
  
Of course not! the blonde growled, and the girl sighed with relief, her confident smile slowly returning to full form.  
  
I didn't think so, she said lightly. An idea suddenly lit up her dark eyes. Actually, wait, wasn't last night one of those rendezvous things with Potter? This has something to do with him, doesn't it?  
  
In a _way_, Draco muttered, adverting his eyes. Pansy leaned forward joyfully, an eager smile gracing her pretty face.  
  
Now _this _is what I like to hear, she purred, her eyes flashing brilliantly. Tell me what happened between you two. I swear, I won't tell a _soul.  
  
_Nothing happened! Draco snarled a little too quickly. _Gods!_ Would you just _listen_ to me for a second? I'm just .. confused about .. something. That's all.  
  
Pansy repeated curiously. What's the something?  
  
Draco frowned, adverting his eyes once again. Fuck, Panse, look. It doesn't matter, okay? Go down and eat something.  
  
Oh, no, Pansy dismissed, I'm not going anywhere _now_! Face it, Drake, you've said too much. I'm in too deep and I know too much ... so just tell me!  
  
Draco snapped in response, scowling. I think I'm ...  
  
Pansy asked eagerly, leaning further forward.  
  
Shut up! the blonde growled, returning to his sentence. I think I might be .. ehrm .. oh, fuck it, I think I might be gay.  
  
He looked back at Pansy, whose lips were parted, her dark eyes wide with amazement. She sat stunned for a moment, then grinned, flashing her sharp, white teeth.  
  
You're _gay! _she yelped, not noticing when Draco winced at the word. I knew it! _Oooh_, _I knew it! _Long before the fucking _Daily Prophet_ guessed, I knew it! I mean, after all, I've known you for-  
  
Shut up! Draco snarled, wiping the grin from her face. Just shut the fuck up! I don't know yet, okay?! It's .. it's never really come up before!  
  
So you've just recently moved from the denial stage to the exploration stage, Pansy said to herself in wonder, ignoring once again the dark looks she was earning. I'm curious as to what brought on this sudden change of heart.  
  
It doesn't matter, Draco murmured venomously. And besides, I don't know yet. I'm not sure, and I don't know when I can be. _If_ I can ever be ...  
  
I know how we can find out, Pansy grinned eagerly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Well, at least, on some basic level. Give me your hand, sweetie.  
  
Draco frowned, sneering at her odd enthusiasm.  
  
Your hand, she commanded, snatching it as soon as he hesitantly held it out. She twisted it quickly so that his palm was up, and then firmly, and absolutely without warning, pressed it into one of her round breasts.  
  
Draco took his breath in with shock, meeting Pansy's eager eyes with a muddled, disgusted sort of expression.  
  
Do you feel anything? she asked energetically, watching as Draco slowly shook his head. Huh. Well, trying giving it a good squeeze then.  
  
The blonde winced, but complied, squeezing the jiggly flesh gently between his pale fingers. He met Pansy's eyes once again, as if awaiting further instruction.  
  
What's going through your head? she asked, leaning forward curiously. Draco frowned, trying to find the right words.  
  
It's sort of .. squishy, I guess, he mumbled, shrugging.  
  
And totally _au naturelle, _babe. So you have no desire whatsoever to jump and rape me? Pansy asked calmly, cocking her head a bit to the side.  
  
Panse, I wouldn't rape you with three bottles of Firewhiskey in my blood, Draco replied, smirking a bit. You, however, seem to be enjoying this.  
  
she smirked. But it's a relief that you don't want to shag me. I have this thing for this _other_ sexy piece of arse, you see.  
  
I'm insulted, Draco smiled, pretending to sulk. His silver eyes flickered mischievously.  
  
Ahh, well Drakey, somehow the skin is less appealing once you've got your fingernails dug into the heart, she grinned back warmly, her eyes laughing.  
  
And at this moment, the heavy door swung open, revealing a wickedly smiling Blaise standing with heavily loaded pockets. He walked into the room, ignoring the black glares he was being sent.  
  
Hey, you left your door charmed unlocked, and I brought you some apples because you didn't come down and ... _woah, _Blaise rambled loudly, his jaw dropping when he looked up to see Draco's hand still squeezing Pansy's left breast.  
  
I'll, uhh, come back in twenty minutes, he gasped, spinning around promptly.  
  
Don't bother, Blaizeekins, we were just testing something out, Pansy laughed as Draco immediately dropped his hand. You brought our Drake fruit? That's sweet of you.  
  
Yeah, well, pretending to steal is kinda fun, he grinned, walking over to the bed. He took a polished apple out of his pocket and threw it to Draco, who breathed on it and began to wipe it off with his black silk pajama top. You'll never guess what I saw in the Great Hall, though. Fucking _hilarious.  
  
_Potter without any clothes on, Draco said immediately, sinking his white teeth gratefully into the apple.  
  
Potter walked in wearing .. _hey_, how the _hell_ did you find out? Blaise sulked, his story ruined. That's damn freaky, how you always know everything that goes on.  
  
He walked in _nude_? Pansy gasped, raising an eyebrow.  
  
In a towel, actually, Blaise smiled again. But fuck, close _enough_! And Snape was so pissed off at him that he took off _one-hundred and twenty five points_ from Gryffindor! Potter argued with him, but I didn't hear any of it.  
  
How sad for him, Draco remarked distantly, licking a drop of juice from his bottom lip.  
  
Blaise nodded, offering an orange to Pansy, who smiled sweetly and took it. Granger's head looked about to implode.  
  
That girl needs to lighten _up, _Pansy rang in, smirking.  
  
I have his clothes, Draco commented, a sinful smile playing across his lips. Immediately, both pairs of eyes snapped to him, jaws dropping.  
  
Pansy laughed, recognition filling her eyes. I want to see!  
  
Draco waved vaguely in the direction of the black leather armchair pulled up to his fireplace. Sitting on its arm were a bundled pair of simple black pants, a dark grey t-shirt, a pair of shoes and a silvery, half-transparent cloak.  
  
Blaise grinned widely, a smug look forming on his face. That's _nice_!  
  
And that damn cloak, Pansy purred contentedly. That's a nice bribe, isn't it, Drake?  
  
I suppose, Draco drawled, laughing a little and pushing temporarily away the bitter, confused, sweet thoughts that had filled his mind upon waking.  
  
Blaise nodded, though his lips were falling into a frown. But, I mean ... how did you manage to get his clothes?  
  
Pansy's eyes lit up at this comment, and she turned to Draco with a wide grin on her lips, her face filled with pure wickedness.  
  
Draco snapped, narrowing his eyes at what he _knew _she was thinking. Dear gods, _no._  
  
Pansy purred in response, clasping her hands tightly.  
  
Draco hissed, sneering at her enthusiasm as waves of doubt crashed within his stomach.  
  
But I'm so proud of you, Drakey! Pansy yelped, dismissing the black look the blonde was shooting her and throwing her arms around him, pushing him down into the bed and enveloping him in a bone-crashing hug. Blaise, stuck in the background, laughed as he always did.  
  
Draco, somewhere beneath her shoulders and bulging breasts, sighed, his mind torn between coming up with a decent no touching violation punishment for Pansy and further contemplating the bigger issue at hand ... the night before.  
  
After all, he'd as good as blurted it to Pansy. That meant it was real.  
  
It meant it was happening. The only choice he had now was just _how_ to let it unravel, whether it sprawled terribly out of his hands or played out perfectly within them. Personally, he was much more fond of control than chaos, and he was just as fond of getting what he wanted.  
  
If only he could figure out just what what he wanted was.  
  
=================================================================  
  
**_Draco:_**It has come to my attention that despite my instructing you NOT to review, a whole crapload of you sick people ACTUALLY DID. Apparently you find it _amusing_ to disobey me. I have, thus, decided to FORCE you NOT to review with a threat!  
  
LISTEN WELL, FOOLS! Your _precious, precious Harry Potter _is currently handcuffed to my bed -- YES, at this very moment! And should anyone review, he will GET WHAT HE DESERVES from me!  
  
So think _very_ _carefully _before you decide to ignore me _this_ time. Your fun could result in Harry Potter's _doom_ at my hand. That's right - I'll _torture_ him in my own bed.  
  
It's _your _call, you pathetic, slash-loving cretins! 


	14. Of Chasing, Crashing and Sparking Fate

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: I rather like this chapter, I suppose. It's a nice interlude. Anyway, I hope that you're all doing well ... I'm doing better myself, other than a run in with the cops last night for underage drinking ... so yes! Enjoy my sober little fanfiction.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Saturday afternoon _in the story.  
  
==================================================  
  
Draco glared at the noon sun shining in brightly through the dingy windows of the library, the brilliant rays reflected within the glass causing glare that was irately distracting to him, white light that was beginning to give him a headache.   
  
Sadly, there were no curtains over the windows. He scowled at them for a moment, then turned to face Pansy, who was holding her fingers out widely in front of herself. She grinned, satisfied with the way the light reflected off the fresh, forest green paint on her fingernails.  
  
Incredible. You've finally managed to accomplish something while in the library, Draco muttered, eying her with distaste. Add painting your nails to the time you went down on Wood in the Restricted Section our third year, and that's two projects completed.  
  
Oh, shut it lovely, she replied easily, still idly praising her handiwork. You've had a broom up your arse the entire morning. And what are you writing, anyway?  
  
A letter to my mother, Draco answered, turning his eyes downward once again to the parchment that lay spread on the table in front of him.   
  
How sweet, Pansy cooed, drumming her nails against the wooden table and smiling. I didn't know you had that kind of sincerity in you, Drake.  
  
I'm asking her about my piece of shit ancestral blood-locked door, the blonde sneered, not very much in the mood for his friend's sugared sarcasm. You remember how it fucked up and let _him_ in.  
  
Maybe it thought he belonged in your bedroom, Pansy smirked, leaning slightly forward. Just like we both know he does.  
  
You read far too deeply into everything, you know, Draco snapped, dipping his quill quickly and returning to his writing. I'm not as easy as you.  
  
You do appreciate a challenge, I'll concede to that, she laughed, winking quickly at the boy, who was too absorbed now in his letter to catch it.  
  
_Dear Narissa,  
  
I have a question to ask of you. The private door supposedly guarding my private chamber here at Hogwarts has, to be blunt - failed its sole purpose. It opened to someone whom I _know _to hold not a single drop of our blood within his veins. Would you know the meaning of this? Is it possible the door has simply grown too old to function properly? Tests with the blood of Zambini and Parkinson proved successful; the door did not open to them. Please tell me if you know of any alternative way to open the door, aside from using Malfoy blood. I will be grateful for your reply, and will, until sorting through the matter, protect my private bedroom with common locking charms and the most complicated passwording spell I can locate.  
  
Your Son, Draco  
  
_I hope she can tell you something, Pansy offered when the blonde finally set down his quill, lifting his storming silver eyes. Her voice was strangely kind, proof that the statement was meant more to improve her friend's mood with her than anything else.  
  
Obviously, I do as well, Draco snapped, though his eyes softened a bit at her sympathetic smile. He withdrew a seal and a stick of blood red wax from his bag, melting its end with his wand and enclosing the letter within a simple envelope. He sealed it with a wax circle containing his family crest.  
  
When he looked up again, Pansy's head was surprisingly bent, her own quill (seldom seen outside of class or the rare times late at night or early in the morning when she quickly finished her homework) scribbling. Draco frowned as he watched her write, dumbfounded.  
  
Don't tell me you're working on our Potions essay already, he said incredulously, a pale eyebrow rising. It's not Monday morning yet, and the gods know you always wait until then.  
  
No, it's not that, Pansy smirked, giggling quietly. This sharpened the blonde's attention, and he leaned forward, attempting to read what she was writing.  
  
An invitation for that lucky bastard you fancy? he questioned, his brow furrowing.  
  
Oh, don't be silly, she dismissed, her smirk deepening. It's a love note to Harry Potter. Signed by you, of course.  
  
Draco shouted hoarsely, standing quickly. His chair tumbled over, sending a loud echo of the crash throughout the entire library.  
  
_Mr. Malfoy! _the shrill voice of Mme Pince nearly screamed from her desk. Control the level of your voice _immediately! _Others are attempting to _study_!  
  
Pansy, if you don't give me that fucking letter _right now_, I'm going to burn your hair instead, Draco seethed, slamming his fists on the table and glaring down at her.   
  
She looked up, raising her eyebrows in a silent challenge as a twisted smile bloomed across her lovely, pale face.  
  
I won't let you ignore him, she said simply, conjuring an envelope and shoving her folded letter inside. A wax seal appeared immediately, a generic, jet black color. I don't know what happened to make you suddenly think of yourself as gay, but whatever it was, I know that you're avoiding it like the plague. And I just can't let you miss this kind of opportunity.  
  
Draco repeated, sarcasm dripping from his cold voice. Opportunity for what, Panse? A life of shame as some kind of _freak? _Public ridicule? Excommunication from my family, being denied my rightful inheritance, not to mention being _killed_ by the others? Is that what you're begging me not to throw away?  
  
Pansy blinked, staring back at him with wide eyes. Finally, she sighed, sliding her fingers slowly across her envelope as she spoke, her tone melancholy and distant.  
  
If you really aren't straight, Drake, she began slowly. Then you're going to have to accept the reaction of the world eventually. It may as well be now, in the beginning, while you still have a chance to build a different life. I can't let you lie to yourself, pretend to be something that your core isn't; I care for you and I--  
  
And if you weren't such an idealistic, sheltered little girl, you would understand that to do that would be my downfall, Draco sneered. My absolute ruin. Even the cause of my death. _Give me the letter.  
  
_Pansy raised the letter in her hand, narrowing her eyes darkly at him.  
  
This isn't your future, Drake, she spoke harshly. But it's the spark that will start it, and I'll be damned if I won't live to see you give it at least a fucking _shot.  
  
_What I do isn't your choice! he snarled. No matter how sanguine your intentions, you can't just write a letter and expect me to play along with your impossible little fantasy!  
  
I can so long as it's your fantasy as well, she smirked, tucking the letter safety into her blouse, its top three buttons undone for effect. Draco's eyes widened in disgust, watching as the letter settled, warm and slightly crushed, between her two round breasts.  
  
Mail it and I'll cut them both off while you sleep and serve them as strawberry-juice-covered melons, you neurotic, impulsive, stubborn psychotic overly indulgent little --   
  
You want the letter? Pansy sneered playfully. Then come and get it, darling!  
  
She smiled sweetly, then immediately turned on her heel and ran, long, silky hair streaming behind her, for the library doors. Draco growled in fury, grabbing his bag quickly and setting off at a run after her, ignoring the uptight yelps he was being hurled from Mme Pince as he crashed through the doors and into the hallway.  
  
He caught sight of Pansy's pleated maroon skirt disappearing down the corridor to his left. He sprinted after the flash of fabric, his scowl deepening; she was heading toward the Eastern corner of the castle, within which the Owlery was kept. He'd be fucked if he didn't catch her on time.  
  
He chased her down corridor after corridor, losing track of his location after about five minutes, his mind locked only on the occasional flash of long hair or flailed skirt or disappearing leg, only the sound of her black heels clicking in loud rhythm against the stone floors.  
  
Just as Pansy was running past the Great Hall doors, she looked up to see, to her complete horror, the infamous Gryffindor Trio strolling across the entrance hall, inconveniently marring her path. She could hear Draco gaining on her, however, and as such she never bothered to stop, running at full pace.   
  
Her shoulder slammed into Hermione's as she rushed past the three of them, and she grinned at her apologetically over her shoulder as she ran on. The bushy-haired girl gasped, the four books she had been cradling to her chest scattering across the floor. She frowned murderously at the disappearing body of Pansy, then knelt down to the floor, reaching for her Charms textbook.  
  
Hey, watch where you're going! Ron shouted after her, scowling. He had been talking with Hermione about the ethics of using strength and vision improvement potions in Quidditch, which was the reason why the other girl had been too distracted to notice Pansy running straight at her.  
  
Don't mind her, Ronald, Hermione huffed, stacking her Potions text on top of her retrieved Charms textbook. She isn't worth it. Probably hurrying off to some completely random snog in the Owlery, if what I've heard is true.  
  
Hurrying isn't the word for it, Ron muttered, still glaring at the stairs up which she had sprinted. She was running a bloody marathon! Damn stupid, it was, I mean ... don't you think so, Harry?  
  
Ron's eyes had wandered over to his best friend, who was staring intently at the stairs Pansy had run down just a minute before. He was watching, wide-eyed, as Draco Malfoy, his normally pale face flushed with the effort of having run nearly halfway across the castle, ran down them at full speed, his bookbag slamming heavily into his side as he went.  
  
Have the Slytherins all gone mad? Ron asked himself in awe as Draco continued to run straight for them. His silver eyes kept flashing distractedly to meet those of Harry, flickering erratically between the raven-haired boy and the stairs ahead him.  
  
_Bleeding fuck, _the blonde's mind cursed, his heart pounding within his chest. _I didn't want him to .. see me again, not after I .. we .. shit, why does he always end up where I don't want him? I'm killing you for this, Panse, letter or no bloody letter!  
  
_Sadly, the twisted combination of both a totally distracted mind and similarly distracted eyes could lead only to a single, inevitable end. Draco never saw the Transfiguration textbook, having yet to be retrieved by Hermione, lying perilously on the stone floor in front of him.  
  
He was continuing to run straight at the three, now avoiding Harry's eyes as much as physically possible, when his foot met it as he ran. He froze as his leg slipped out from underneath him, the book spiraling aside as he fell forward, grasping for anything in his sudden panic.   
  
His fingers clenched Harry's dark sweater, and he brought the raven-haired boy down with him.  
  
A moment later the back of his head crashed against the stone floor, his legs twisted with a second pair. He winced at the throbbing pain in his head, barely hearing the cry of pain that slipped from Harry's lips as his knees slammed hard into the stone floor, his body falling heavily on top of the other boy's.  
  
It took a moment for both to recover, eyes blinking open to reveal silver and green clouded with pain and utter confusion. Draco groaned loudly, willing both the ache in his mind and the heavy weight on his ribs to disappear. He was glad when it shifted, Harry propping himself up sorely on his elbows ...  
  
... _Harry.  
  
_Gods, watch where the hell you're going, Harry grumbled above him, his knees throbbing with fresh, intense stabs of pain. What can be so important to get to on a Saturday?  
  
Draco swallowed hard, idly realizing that his spit tasted like fresh blood; he must have bitten his tongue during the fall. He blinked, staring up at the other boy, his lips only inches from his own, his green eyes staring intensely down into his, his legs straddling his waist. He stared up, waiting for recognition to flood the raven-haired boy's eyes, waiting for an emotion to swell in them, any emotion - longing, rejection, fear. Particularly, he was waiting for the rejection.  
  
There was nothing. Only dull anger; simple irritation that he'd ran into him.  
  
Harry snapped at last, annoyed with the other's eerie silence. I didn't expect you to apologize, but you could at least say _something_. You weren't knocked unconscious, you know.  
  
Draco only blinked, realization flooding his own mind. Coming that close to him after the night before should have invoked _some_ kind of reaction in the other boy; extreme anger toward him, harsh words of disgust and rejection, spatterings of hate; _anything_. Instead, he was acting as if nothing had ever happened; as if the two were still just simple enemies, enemies who met secretly, yes, but enemies all the same.  
  
That could mean only one thing.  
  
You don't remember, Draco whispered, his voice dull, his mind filled with disappointment, with doubt; even he himself could not be sure what he felt in that moment. It was a hollow feeling, one that swelled his heart with emptiness, with blank, helpless emotion.  
  
Don't remember what? Harry frowned down on him, an eyebrow raising. He wanted to bring up mention of his missing clothing and treasured cloak, pay the blonde back for the one hundred and twenty-five points he'd lost that morning, even. Something the other boy's wide eyes, however .. something haunting and unreadable .. silenced his tongue.  
  
He would bring it up later. They always met again.  
  
I can't believe that you don't, Draco whispered under his breath, finally making an attempt to sit up. Harry moved immediately, standing slowly, wincing as weight was shifted onto his freshly sore knees.  
  
The other boy stood up at well, staring out distantly into space, his actions automatic. Harry frowned at him, his brow furrowing. He was still waiting for an icy comeback, a familiar, Watch where the hell you're going, Potter!.   
  
Instead, the blonde appeared to be muttering to himself, lost in his own thoughts.  
  
Harry began hesitantly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Hermione retrieved the final textbook and proceeded to stand impatiently near Ron, her eyes glaring daggers at the blonde. I guess I'll see you later.  
  
Draco frowned, looking back at him steadily, silver flames flickering within somber eyes.  
  
You can bet on it, Potter, he spat quietly, taking a short step backward.  
  
And with that, they both went their separate ways.  
  
===========================================================  
  
Oh Drake, it's honestly not a big deal, Pansy drawled from outside the blonde's private chambers, her back leaning comfortably against the enchanted mahogany door. It was just a silly little letter, that's all.  
  
Burn in Hell, Parkinson, a voice snarled from within, muffled by the distance between them. Draco buried his head further down into his pillow, letting silky strands of white fall over his face and shield his eyes from the outside world.  
  
Don't be such a drama queen, Pansy went on, ignoring his threats. I know you, darling. I also know what's best for you, and trust me, you won't regret the fact that I--  
  
Forged the Malfoy name, dragged me further into a situation I'm attempting to escape, tricked Potter, took steps to ruin what semblance of a respectable life I still have left, yes, I know, Draco listed off venomously. I already regret it, you insufferable, meddling, infuriating woman.  
  
Just because you're not attracted to us doesn't mean that you can hate us all, lovely, Pansy purred, snickering behind the door. Draco groaned, grabbing a plush black pillow and throwing it as hard as he could at the door.  
  
I give up! he growled loudly. You have no conscious! Go fuck up your _own_ reality and for once keep your belied good intentions to yourself!  
  
He hasn't even read the letter yet, Drake, Pansy sighed, shaking her head slowly.  
  
the blonde snapped. Now go the hell away.  
  
That's no way to treat a caring friend, Pansy pouted, turning around only to glare at the multiple charm sealed doorway. You'll see, dear! You'll be kissing my high heels in gratitude this time Tuesday morning!  
  
I'll be shoving them up certain places is what I'll be doing! the voice spat back.  
  
Senseless, stupid boy! Pansy cried, snubbing the door with her thin nose. Honestly! Sometimes I forget why I love you so ruddy much!  
  
For an excuse to sabotage me without all the guilt, Draco snapped. He threw his pillow over his head, blocking out the sound of his friend's alternating pleads and insults and throwing himself into a quiet darkness, a void in which he could think.  
  
He began to relax, and in a moment ... tumultuous thoughts of a certain raven-haired boy flooded his mind.  
  
On the one hand, the fact that Potter didn't remember a thing was a way out for him, a very convenient loophole. It was his chance to cut his losses and move on with his generally heterosexual life, to pretend, in essence, that the night and its events had never taken place. It was a chance that he, in fact, had every intention to take.  
  
There was only one slight problem. He wanted _more.  
  
_Had Potter been nothing by a forgettable first, an experiment in a world he simply just couldn't resist tasting, it would have been easier to walk away, to dismiss the night. If the raven-haired boy meant nothing to him, he would have been glad to leave the memory behind.  
  
And yet, when Potter had looked down on him that morning, when Draco had searched his brilliant green eyes for an emotion that would betray his reaction to the kiss, and when he had found only emptiness ... it had wrenched his heart. If only to find rejection, he needed to know how Harry would have responded were his mind not blacked out by a befuddled potion.  
  
He needed something to prove that the night was real.  
  
In that, Pansy was oddly right. He couldn't ignore the night forever, not while simply seeing the other boy stilled his mind, clouded his head with distraction and confusion. If anything, he needed closure. Perhaps the letter could bring him at least that.  
  
... the letter. He had never asked Pansy what she had actually written within it. A love note could mean anything - a confession of affection, an invitation to a night of reckless sex, a proposition for an innocent date. He had to ask her.  
  
he shouted, his head emerging from the pillow as he turned to face the door. Pansy, I need to know what the fuck you wrote in that letter! Tell me _right now_!  
  
There was no answer.  
  
_Shit, she left already, _Draco thought miserably. He let his head drop back down to the pillow immediately, sighing. He would have to wait until tomorrow to find out what sort of spark would be the trigger to his alternative destiny.  
  
Outside the door, her back reclining against the dark wood, Pansy gave a sweet, sinful smile to the quiet of her dearest friend's voice and mind.  
  
===========================================================  
  
**Harry**: Hello, readers. I just want to say that I'm still sore from being tortured by Draco, you know, from the last chapter ... so, well, thanks a _lot_ for reviewing.  
  
**Draco**: Bwahahaha! You see, you morons? You tell them, Harry, let them _rot_ in a bath of _pure guilt_! They'll never click that sinful button _ever_ again!  
  
**Harry**: Ahh ... right then. _Thanks a lot_ for reviewing. It really ... sucked.  
  
**Draco**: Hopefully you literate imbeciles will now know to take my threats seriously! It wasn't just a bluff, I honestly did torture the bastard! _At your request! _Yes, that's right, let the guilt eat you out from the inside! Let it decay your inner organs and twisted hearts!  
  
**Harry**: And if you're not too busy ... please review ... several times ...  
  
**Draco**: Yes, and then ... wait, what the hell?! Hush, you. The goal here is _never_. We want them to _never_ review! Never!  
  
**Harry**: Oh, of course. Please, everyone, don't ... _never_ review.  
  
**Draco**: Ahaha, yes, the begging of the Boy Who Lived ... music to my ears. Heed his plea, you guilt-ridden sickos! Review and he will be tortured again and again, to a horrifying apex! _Never review again!_


	15. When Owls Attack

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: I have so much to fit in the chapter after this now, argh! I have to do ... well, this one thing ... and then, this other thing, and then this one little detail and ... blargh. This story will never, never end.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Sunday morning _in the story.  
  
=============================================================  
  
Draco sat unmoving in his seat, his light eyes narrowed into thin slits as he stared coldly around the Great Hall. He was chewing slowly, his piece of toast long reduced to a saliva-drenched pulp in his mouth. Pansy, seated next to him, rolled her eyes.  
  
The morning post isn't for another seven minutes, lovely, she said rather tartly, still sore over having been screamed at the night before. Draco flashed his eyes to her for a moment, his lips twisting down into a scowl, and said nothing.  
  
It's just the school owls anyway, Blaise said easily, oblivious to the letter's existence. The post owls that have to go any distance have the day off, cept the newspaper ones. Why so anxious for your _Prophet_?  
  
That publication can burn in the depths of Dante's imagination, the blonde hissed, his eyes far from his friends. He was glaring intently at the large windows through which the owls would fly in just a few minutes, and when his eyes wandered from that point, they landed on Potter.  
  
Disheveled, lazy _Potter_, his black hair falling over his forehead in raggy waves, his black slacks and loose, dark grey shirt anonymous and unappealing. He looked to Draco as though he had dressed in the dark, stumbled out of bed in the morning only to throw on, unashamed, the first articles of clothing his hands could grasp. Did he bother to comb his hair at _all_? The annoyance of it all made the blonde want to stroll over to his table and jerk a brush violently through his tangled black hair, all the while listening to him wince and twitch ... whimper as he ran his pale hands through those wild locks ...  
  
Gods, you're out of it this morning, Blaise frowned, waving a hand in front of his friend's face. Have a latte, will you? And why are you staring over at the Gryffindor table? Are we planning another attack on Potter?  
  
He grinned at this, leaning closer to the blonde, who jerked as his mind snapped back into reality.  
  
You might say that, Pansy smirked, taking a blueberry muffin and nibbling on it playfully.   
  
Well fuck, let me in on it then! Blaise jabbed excitedly, sliding closer to his slinky female friend. I want to know everything. I love hooking up this shit!  
  
Hooking up, Pansy purred delicately. Yes, yes. That's part of it.  
  
Panse, one more word and I'm gorging out your vagina with a steak fork, Draco growled, his eyes locked now on the large windows. Blaise paled, spinning around to stare, slack-jawed, at the blonde.  
  
You're fighting? he winced, an eyebrow raising.  
  
You might say that, Pansy replied quickly. You see, Blaise, Drake and I had this lovely chat, and it turns out that he's--  
  
Draco shouted, swallowing the rest of his toast in a sudden gulp. The fucking Sunday post is _here_! About goddamn time! OSIRIS!  
  
Pansy and Blaise both jumped and turned at the sudden scream, staring wide-eyed at the blonde. He had stood, his food abandoned, and was now waving franticly for his own owl. It was soaring in as one of the first in the crowd of owls, his large wings beating steadily.  
  
He dipped to the Slytherin table and landed expertly on Draco's outstretched arm. He was a gorgeous bird, purebred to absolute perfection - his wingspan was broad, his silky coat of feathers jet black, less the white tips on the outermost points of his wings. He turned his glowing amber eyes to the blonde's frantic silver ones, hooting deeply.  
  
Good, obedient bird, Draco cooed, his eyes grave as he fed his pet a small morsel of sausage. I have a little mission for you. Listen well, and if you succeed, you'll be eating sausages out of my palm until you're too fat to fly home.  
  
Osiris hooted at attention. Pansy and Blaise, slightly reeling from the shock of hearing their usually icy friend bribing his own owl, listened and watched with wide eyes.  
  
You know Potter's snoody white owl? Draco hissed, using his free hand to point out the snow-coloured bird, just now swooping in through the large window. She's got a letter for him from this bitch here, and I want you to steal it from her. Do what you must. GO!  
  
Osiris hooted loyally, then took off into the Great Hall air, beating his black wings toward the Gryffindor table. Draco watched greedily as he neared it, his talons, sharp and shining black, uncoiling beautifully.  
  
How did you know I used Potter's owl? Pansy pouted, sneering up at the blonde.  
  
You hate the school owls, you've said a thousand times how ruddy brown owls look, Draco replied with ease. And you love the white ones. I've heard you compliment Potter's owl myself.  
  
Oh, damn you, Pansy growled, flipping her hair in annoyance.  
  
I think stealing mail is illegal, Draco, Blaise spoke up from behind the girl, his face bewildered. And why all the bother with one letter, anyway? What's Potter's mail to us?  
  
Draco snapped. He turned his sharp eyes back to his owl, watching with growing elation as it began its swift descent toward the other table, sharp talons at the ready.  
  
Across the expansive room, Ron looked up into the crowd of descending owls, chewing his lump of sausage in his mouth and swallowing before reaching out his hand to point.  
  
Look mate, he said, turning to Harry, who was glaring darkly over at the Slytherin table between bites of his toast. He had watched as Draco had fed and spoken to his owl, something he had never before seen the blonde do. He had never thought him one to care for a pet, in truth, to care for anything at all.  
  
What is it, Ron? Harry snapped rather tartly, preferring at the moment to be left to his own wandering thoughts.  
  
Hedwig is coming our way, and she's got a letter for you, Ron said in a proud sort of voice, happy to have been first to notice this little event.   
  
said Hermione, her eyes not lifting from the book spread out on the breakfast table in front of her. That's interesting. Maybe it's from Padfoot, hmm?  
  
the raven-haired boy agreed slowly, finally tearing his eyes away from the silver-eyed boy yards away. The thought of news from Sirius was tempting; he hadn't seen his godfather since the summertime.  
  
He looked up, spotting Hedwig easily, her white coat gleaming among the plain muddy browns of the school owls. He whistled to her, reaching for a piece of sausage to slice up and feed to her once she came to him. Twenty feet above him, she hooted back affectionately.  
  
_Yes_ Osiris, just a few feet more, she hasn't caught sight of you yet, Draco spoke excitedly to himself, wringing his hands in his lap. You can do it, you sweet, lovely creature ... dear violent, powerful creature ...  
  
You're scaring us, Drake, Pansy commented dryly from next to him, shaking her head slowly. Blaise was watching both the blonde and the black owl with wide, bemused eyes, still not entirely sure what was happening.  
  
Man, what'd Potter's owl ever do to you? he asked, yelping when Pansy elbowed him roughly in the side and shot him a dark glare.  
  
Shut up, Blaise, the blonde growled, still silently cheering for his avatar. He waited, his eyes alert and attentive, watching with impossible precision, unbreakable concentration as Osiris loomed closer to the other bird, closer and closer ...  
  
The raven owl closed the distance between himself and his target with a final, great sweep of his long wings, broadsiding her roughly. Hedwig screeched in panic, flapping wildly to keep her balance while simultaneously nipping at the larger bird, who was flexing his sharp talons warningly, beating his wings to stay in place.  
  
Harry, many feet below, gasped and then promptly cursed, standing immediately and withdrawing his wand. Ron paled, his jaw dropping at the catfight above him, and Hermione's head jolted up in alarm, her lips forming a ring of surprise.  
  
You bloody psycho owl! Harry shouted up into the Great Hall ceiling, raising his voice so that it might carry over both the distance and the screeching of the other owls as they flew off in fear. Get away from Hedwig! Now, damn you!  
  
Owls aren't supposed to be aggressive like that! Hermione gasped, confusion relevant in her wide chocolate eyes. Especially not trained _postal_ owls!  
  
It's obviously gone mental! Ron yelped back, not sure what to do. Harry continued to scream up at Osiris, who generally ignored his curses and shouts.  
  
Leave her alone, you freaking featherbrained demon! he yelled up, waving his fist wildly. I mean it, if you don't leave her alone this instant I'll resort to more drastic measures! I fucking mean it, you moronic creature!  
  
By this time, Harry and the fighting owls above his head had drawn quite the crowd, many students ignoring their unfinished breakfasts in favor of catching this disturbing show. Up at the staff table, eyes had shifted, alert and rather alarmed.  
  
A wave of gasps sounded as Harry finally gave up verbal reasoning and withdrew his wand, pointing it up at the nipping, screeching black bird.  
  
Oh fuck, he's going for Osiris! Draco swore, slamming his fist on the table in anger. Get the letter _now_, you damn bird! Hurry up before Potter sets you on fire!  
  
Panse, what's in this letter? Blaise whimpered, now more than frightened at his friend's behavior. The long-haired girl only smiled, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice calmly as she watched the ongoing show.  
  
Hermione's voice sounded, grabbing his shirt and tugging down on it roughly to gain his attention. You can't attack an _owl_! That's showing cruelty to a domesticated magical creature, it's against the law!  
  
He's going to hurt Hedwig if I don't do something! Harry yelled down at her, his wand still aimed for the aerial fight. I can't just _stand_ here! That crazy thing is a lot bigger than her, she'll never win and come out unharmed!  
  
Yes, Harry, I know, but there has to be some other way to stop it besides--  
  
But at this moment, the fight took a sudden and strange turn. Osiris lunged forward, talons outstretched, only to grip and rip away the letter that was tied tightly to Hedwig's leg. She hooted in outrage, screeching as the larger bird turned and began to fly toward the other side of the Great Hall. She made to follow him, flapping her ivory wings wildly in horror, but was stopped when Harry whistled quietly below her.  
  
She paused a moment, then dove down to her master, hooting loudly as she landed on his outstretched hand. Harry lowered her, using his free hand to check his beloved pet over for injuries. She appeared to have a lost a few feathers, but other than that, she seemed unharmed, still hooting as though royally pissed.  
  
Draco, on the other hand, watched in sheer joy as his Osiris dove down to his own waiting arm, letter clasped in his thick talons. The bird dropped the letter on his plate before turning his eyes to his owner's expectantly, his beak nipping at the air.  
  
Good bird, sweet bird, Draco ravished, feeding him a large chunk of sausage. Such a gorgeous, powerful creature, so obedient, so wise ...  
  
He ran his hand down the bird's back for a moment, watching as it greedily ate, then sent it off into the air in favor of snatching the letter, grasping it in his hands with deep passion.  
  
Take this, Panse! he spat, grinning down at the other girl. I got the letter! I _won _this round! No fake sexual invites or disgusting, mushy words of bullshited love crap for _Potter_! _I got the letter!_  
  
Yes, you did, Panse spoke serenely. And everyone saw you steal it. By ordering the mauling of Potter's poor, sweet owl, no less.  
  
Draco froze at this, finally noticing his surroundings. Hundreds of angry, owl-loving students were glaring at him from their seats, Potter's red-hot glare the most intimidating of all. Even from yards away, his emerald eyes were conspicuously burning with fury, his wand still gripped dangerously at his side.  
  
Somehow, this affected Draco the most. The fear of being mass-hexed by the school was influencing him, yes, but the realization that he had just completely pissed off Harry, perhaps for the remainder of their school days, sunk his stomach the deepest. In his rush to rescue himself from utter humiliation, he hadn't thought of how his actions might jeopardize the civil terms had been on with the boy.  
  
_ In fact_, Draco thought dully to himself, _I think I've just fucked myself over ten times more than Pansy's letter ever would have_.  
  
Fuck, Pansy, he asked weakly. What the hell did I just do?  
  
We'll discuss it in the Headmaster's office, a stern voice spoke from behind him. Draco jerked, turning his head around only to stare into the infuriated eyes of Professor McGonagall.  
  
the blonde gulped. I don't know what happened, he just went insane! I think it might be the owl mating season, and, you know, we never bothered to have the ruddy thing fixed before we--  
  
Follow me, Mr. Malfoy, the teacher behind him spoke tersely. And bring the letter.  
  
==================================================================  
  
**Draco: **Haha, you bloody suckers. You didn't even get to _read_ the letter yet. You have to wait until the next chapter ... hahaha, you got screwed over! This is so _great_ ... for once, the psycho authoress makes a good choice ...  
  
**Harry: **That's true, actually ... and we've only kissed _once_ throughout all these chapters. I wonder why people enjoy reading this story so much ... I mean, if _I_ were going to read a story about us getting together, I'd read some plotless pornographic out-of-character oneshot ...   
  
**Draco**: WHAT?! Me, be written _out of character_? Who the fuck would do that? I'm perfect just the way I fucking am, I can't be written any other way!  
  
**Harry: **So that you could the submissive, begging one on bottom ... I .. I mean, that's a popular choice. Not that I ever read that sort of thing while she's away from her computer, ahh ... not even sure where to find that ...  
  
**Draco**: We should go find some, Harry. And then I'll track down the sick, twisted perverted authoresses and FLAME them, and then I'll ...  
  
**Harry**: ... print it out for later ...  
  
**Draco**: ... figure out her email address and spam her with links to stories in which you fuck the Weasel! Hell freakin' yeah! And then we'll hack into her muggle technology machine thing and open her stories and replace the names and with and , and then we'll ...  
  
**Harry**: STOP! Just stop! Ron and ... me ... I think I feel sort of .. I'm gonna ..... ugggh, gods, be back, bathroom ...  
  
**Draco**: Harry? _Fine_, but bring me back some of those Orneo cookies or whatever, I'm getting hungry! Did you hear me?! Awe, nevermind. As for you sick people ... well. I've picked up some certain information about how to send diseases to your muggle compusting machines, so beware! Review and I will HUNT YOU DOWN and fuck up your cybering space! 


	16. Defiling Sunday: One Scheme at a Time

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: Busy busy busy! The next chapter will probably be up, mmm ... around the middle of next week? Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and continues to review the new chapters. =D I can't thank everyone individually, but you really do inspire me to continue and have creative, twisted fun doing it.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is still _Sunday morning _in the story.  
  
=============================================================  
  
I have never had high expectations for your morality, Mr. Malfoy, McGonagall spoke tartly as they traveled through the stone corridor. I cannot deny that. But to think that you, such an intelligent young man, would order an attack on such a peaceful bird! Stealing mail I can comprehend, but treating defenseless owls like playthings ...  
  
Draco sighed, leaning back and scowling darkly. He had followed McGonagall into the entrance hall, at which point he had stopped suddenly and declared that he would go nowhere near the Headmaster's office, as he had done nothing wrong. He had turned sharply on his heel and was heading back for the Slytherin dungeons when she drew her wand.  
  
_Suspendeous Malfoy!  
  
_He was now following her at a leisurely rate, bobbing up and down as he did so. His feet were floating a good two feet above the ground, legs dangling uselessly. He muttered curses under his breath as McGonagall continued to rant her outrage, occasionally throwing obscene hand gestures toward the back of her head.  
  
... never seen such despicable treatment by any student toward a fellow classmate's owl! I personally think you should be reprimanded by the law as an adult, in addition, of course, to academic punishment! We'll see what the Headmaster has to say about all of this ... ahh, yes. Here we are.  
  
Draco looked up to see an eagle statue set in a large, circular recession in the corridor wall. He sneered at it miserably, his hopes dampening.  
  
_So the senile twit likes birds, _he thought dully. _Just my ruddy luck.  
  
_Peppermint Imp, McGonagall spoke gravely. Her blonde charge watched, eyebrows slightly raised, as a spiral stone staircase rose from the floor, twisting around the eagle as it went. He yelped when she stepped forward, jerking her wand to command his levitating body to follow.  
  
They traveled up the rising stairs, pausing at last in front of a wide door. McGonagall rapped on it sharply, her lips a thin line.  
  
Mr. Malfoy has arrived to speak with you, Headmaster, she announced, glancing at him briefly from behind her square spectacles. Draco sneered back at her, silver eyes defiant and furious.  
  
Ahh, yes, a calm, if not weary voice answered. Do come in.  
  
The lock on the door released with a click, and McGonagall stepped inside, ushering her charge in after her using delicate sweeps of her wand. He bobbed in slowly, his narrowed eyes peering around at the surroundings distastefully. It was then that he saw him.  
  
Harry, seated in a plush burgundy armchair tilted toward the Headmaster's desk. He turned back when they entered the office, his eyes burning a murderous dark green. He scowled at Draco, who only frowned back, some of his anger strangely slipping away at the sight of his mortal rival.  
  
He broke his eyes from the mutual gaze at last, adverting them in avoidance of an emotion he could not identify. He looked around at the rest of the room instead; the raven-haired boy had apparently chosen to drag along his owl as well, as she was seated, completely unharmed, on a golden perch. She was sharing it with a large, graceful-looking scarlet bird, a bird whose small eyes were watching him intently.  
  
Snape was in the room as well, having been summoned as the Head of Draco's own House. He stared at the blonde darkly as he floated in, fury evident in his black eyes.  
  
Please, have a seat, Dumbledore spoke politely, conjuring two armchairs identical to the ones Harry and Snape were currently waiting in. McGonagall seated herself immediately in the one farthest to the left, making the only free seat available one that was both next to Harry and nestled between two infuriated professors.  
  
I'm fine here, thanks, Draco growled, hovering a few feet behind the open armchair. He felt Harry's eyes still scourging him, and he forced himself to look down at the other boy, heart pounding with nervous tension.  
  
he snapped, a shiver running down his spine as he made contact with blazing emerald eyes. Something amusing, Potter?  
  
You're levitating, the raven-haired boy commented bluntly, his voice carefully controlled, the fury within his chest barely contained. And you look ridiculous. Tried to escape, did you?  
  
Draco sneered at this, blood rushing to his cheeks.  
  
I rather like it, he smirked back. All the better for looking down on you, Potter. It's just as satiating in a literal sense.  
  
Listen, you snotty little _pretty boy_ git, I--  
  
Gentlemen, please, Dumbledore interrupted quietly. He nodded toward Professor McGonagall, who, wand in hand, directed Draco's floating body over to the armchair. He yelped, outraged, as he was dumped into it unceremoniously.  
  
Just minutes ago, Malfoy directed his own owl to attack that of Potter, all for the purpose, it seems, of intercepting his personal mail, McGonagall explained quickly, eager to start the discussion. Malfoy's owl managed to steal this as a result.  
  
She held up the letter, rumpled and torn, in her hand. Draco paled, staring at it with dread; she had snatched it from him in the entrance hall, moments after levitating his body at her command. To all others in the office, it appeared a simple, nothing beyond the ordinary piece of folded parchment. To Draco, it was a written and sealed contract of his downfall.  
  
I am sure, Snape spoke up dryly, That Mr. Malfoy has some sort of explanation. He leaned forward, glaring at the blonde from beyond Harry's head. The raven-haired boy, too, was glaring at Draco, waiting for his words.  
  
he blurted unsurely, his palms beginning to sweat. I don't know what happened. The ruddy thing just went bloody insane, attacking Potter's owl like that. As I told McGonagall, we never had him fixed. It's Potter's own fault for sauntering around with an owl as slutty as himself.  
  
Harry sneered silently at this, bearing his teeth as his eyes narrowed further. The others in the room grimaced, frowning and staring gravely at the blonde.  
  
Please control your tongue, Mr. Malfoy, the Headmaster spoke at last, frowning. Minerva, what is your opinion on this?  
  
It's absolute rubbish! the thin woman exclaimed immediately. Nonsense! Hundreds of students heard him cheer on his bird as it attacked that of Potter, saw him reward it when it returned with the letter. It was obviously planned out beforehand, if rather poorly.  
  
Draco's head snapped in her direction, and he glared darkly at her, lips tight and thin.  
  
And yours, Severus? Dumbledore asked calmly, placing his fingertips into a steeple.  
  
The Slytherin Head of House took his time in answering, all the while staring at his prized student with murderous intent, warning him to speak up with a better story. When he did not, Snape scowled, turning at last to Dumbledore.  
  
It seems that with so many witnesses in favor of foul play, he spoke slowly, Mr. Malfoy's story becomes void of plausibility.  
  
Dumbledore nodded at this, turning his wise eyes on a now sulking, furious Draco.  
  
Have you anything to add? he asked the blonde, who shook his head slowly, his silver eyes only briefly eying the calm older man. Very well then. I am sure, Mr. Malfoy, that you are aware your actions have violated wizarding law. Showing cruelty, even without the use of your own hand, to a domesticated magical creature, including owls, is considered a crime.  
  
Draco mumbled, wondering if he could draw his wand and kill himself quickly enough so that no one in the room would be able to stop him.  
  
However, Hedwig seems to be without injury, Dumbledore continued, turning to look at the snowy owl on his perch, who hooted at mention of her name. I will leave it up to Harry whether or not he wishes to press charges.  
  
Draco turned to the other boy then, cringing at the fury he saw locked within his eyes. He was staring at him, his emerald gaze scrutinizing him painfully for several long moments. The penetrating stare both froze his pounding heart and warmed it with bleak hope; there was hesitation in his irate eyes. It was as if he were searching the blonde's face for proof of malice and hate, and continuing to stare only because he could not find it.  
  
I think, Harry began slowly, his lips forming the words carefully, That I need to understand _why_ he felt he needed to do this first. I want to read the letter.  
  
Draco swallowed hard, his spine stiffening as his mind went into a panic. He would take whatever punishment he was handed, _anything _to avoid that happening.  
  
he shouted, his voice weak with doubt; he knew that he would never be obeyed now. I don't want the letter read! Burn the bloody thing, I don't give a damn, but _he can't have it_!  
  
Harry's eyes widened, darkening with fresh anger. McGonagall pursed her lips, outraged, and Snape shot the blonde an infuriated _you are only making this worse for yourself and further embarrassing me'_ glare. Dumbledore raised a snow-white eyebrow.  
  
Potter has the right to read his _own_ mail, McGonagall spoke loudly, scolding Draco more than stating a fact. It is clearly addressed to him, and as such has become a possession of his.  
  
She waved the letter in the air, letting the words on its front (_To Mr. Harry Potter, Esquire, Urgent Delivery Insisted!) _be available for all to see and read. Draco groaned in his seat, his head dropping.  
  
I see that it has no return recipient, Dumbledore noted serenely. Let me ask you this, Mr. Malfoy. Did you write and send this letter?  
  
Draco looked up briefly at this address, his cheeks burning. He shook with head vehemently, scowling.  
  
he snapped, sighing a bit as the words left him.  
  
Then I see no reason why Harry cannot read the letter, the old Headmaster continued leisurely. Unless, of course, you have something else to add?  
  
Nothing at all, Draco sulked, adverting his eyes miserably.  
  
Very well, then, Dumbledore said, a tone of finality to his voice. Professor McGonagall, please return the letter to Harry.  
  
Of course, she huffed, outstretching her hand directly in front of Draco's face as she handed it to Harry. He took it swiftly, eying the parchment as soon as it touched his fingertips. It was high-grain, a rich, sturdy golden colour; expensive parchment that Sirius would never bother purchasing. It was not from him after all.  
  
He looked up for a moment, meeting Draco's silver eyes. They were wide, filled with a mix of nearly unreadable emotions; fury and indignation, obvious embarrassment, and flickering beyond those ... it seemed impossible, but he thought he could see a wave of fear.  
  
I'll read this, then, he said quietly, the Professors nodding around him as he waited for the blonde's reaction. He stiffened, his bottom lip trembling for a half-second before his features fell back into their familiar cold perfection.  
  
Confused, but knowing he would find no further clue, he looked back to the mangled letter in his hands. He ripped it open carefully, surprised for a moment at the plain black wax seal. He knew that Draco, being the rich snob he was, would never settle for less than an elegant family crest pressed into a seal of his.  
  
He pulled the letter out, avoiding the temptation to look back up at the blonde and continue his attempt to read his emotions. He unfolded it carefully, frowning at the unfamiliar, elegant looping script.  
  
_Dear Harry Darling,  
  
I was thinking on you moments before, here in the library, and the thought dawned on me -- how long it's been since we last met one another! I'm absolutely _dying _to spend some ... quality time with you, and so I thought, ahah! I should invite you to meet me in the broomcloset tomorrow night. Be there, sexy! I even promise to return your clothes, as I have no use for them. Not that, of course, you will either.  
  
Yours Truly, Drake  
  
_  
Harry stuttered, his jaw dropping at the letter's words. He heard someone sigh deeply near him, registering the voice as Draco's as he continued to gape down at the parchment, shocked. He could not have written ... _this! _  
  
There was simply no way he could have. The handwriting was feminine and beautiful ... well, all right, possibility there. But he had never heard Draco refer to himself as nor did the blonde refer to him by his first name. All that and, of course ... he wasn't attracted to him. The letter sounded almost ... sexual.  
  
Harry looked up, unbeknownst to the blood that was flooding his cheeks. He met Draco's eyes curiously, searching them for some kind of recognition, some kind of proof that this wasn't a complete work of foolery; within them, however, he found only blank grey, tired and worn, worried perhaps. Fearful. The other boy only frowned at him, his anger strangely absent.  
  
He couldn't have written it. He had said moments before that he hadn't written the letter. Of course, it might have been a lie ... after all, McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore were all present, and if they had read the letter themselves ... it was a possibility that he had lied. But on the other hand, it was completely unlike him ... the tone was flippant, totally unlike anything he had ever heard leave Draco's mouth.  
  
Gods, he didn't know what to think.  
  
I've decided not to press charges, Harry began nervously, realizing that all eyes were locked on him. I ... will let it go this time, as Hedwig wasn't hurt. I won't stand for it again, however. If this happens a second time, I'll let the Ministry deal with ... ahh, him.  
  
Very well, Harry, Dumbledore said immediately, eyes twinkling. McGonagall had opened her mouth to protest, but closed it upon receiving a look from the Headmaster. The corner of Snape's mouth twitched, and he failed to speak, though his eyes looked slightly relieved.  
  
Draco stared at him, eyes blank, perhaps slightly confused. A long moment later, he parted his lips.  
  
It won't happen again, he said quietly. I swear it.  
  
I should hope not! McGonagall commanded shrilly. As for your school punishment, I propose that a deed so unique as this be fitted with an equally creative penalty. Let him clean the Owlery this coming Saturday; perhaps he will learn to better appreciate the tender care required in tending to magical creatures.  
  
Draco yelped, his head jerking from Harry's face to that of his Professor. That's the work of a house elf! I'll never stand for this, being ordered to scrap owl shit off a thousand perches, it's an outrage! I refuse to--  
  
I think it's quite fitting, Dumbledore spoke, calmly ignoring Draco's sudden outrage. It will help you to learn respect for our owls. Be glad that it is not a month of Saturday detentions.  
  
Draco opened his mouth to protest, but shut it with a snap when he realized that no amount of debate would win him back his Saturday. He was glad, in a way -- a very subdued, distant way -- that it was not more severe. His father's riches could have easily handled the suit, but never the crude publicity. He could see it now:  
  
_GAY MALFOY HEIR ATTACKS BOY-WHO-LIVED'S CUTE ICKLE OWL! PUBLIC CRIES OUT FOR AZKABAN SENTENCE! BEASTALITY RUNS IN FAMILY LINE, INSIDERS SAY!  
  
_Draco groaned at the thought of it alone.  
  
Snape spoke up suddenly, his voice dripping with venom at the entire situation having taken place at all, If we have nothing more to discuss, I would like to return to my morning.  
  
By all means, by all means, Dumbledore said graciously, smiling serenely as both McGonagall and Harry stood, the latter whistling for his owl. She hooted and flew to his outstretched arm, turning back to stare wistfully at Fawkes.  
  
Draco was the last to stand, doing so slowly and rather ruefully, trying to keep his remaining pride intact. Dumbledore nodded at them all, waving them off cheerfully.  
  
Have an enjoyable Sunday, he wished, eyes twinkling as they fell on Draco. He scowled at the older man, rushing from the office with a dark expression.  
  
He was halfway back to the Great Hall, cheeks pink, part of his mind lost in a slight panic over the letter while the majority of it was planning how he would chop off Pansy's long hair as she slept, dye it flaming orange and add freckles to her perfect, pale complexion (becoming a Weasley was the worst fate he could come up with at the moment) ... and then let her live a few days and then _torture her slowly_, and then _kill_ _her_ using kitchen utensils and everyday household appliances ...  
  
... when he heard a familiar voice call behind him.  
  
Harry yelled, jogging up to him uncomfortably. Wait a second, would you?! I want a word!  
  
Draco froze immediately, his legs filling in instantly with cement at the jarring, and yet painfully satiating sound. He turned around slowly, watching as Harry quickly closed the distance between them, panting slightly.  
  
What do you want, Potter? he spat with as much venom as he could muster, all the while trying his best to mask his panic. _He's read the damned letter, _he thought rapidly, wishing it was his to burn. _And now he wants to talk about it. Great, fucking great, what should I say?! I don't even know what it says!  
  
_ Harry said loudly, still breathing heavily. Draco shivered involuntarily at the sound, finding it difficult to focus on the raven-haired boy's words as his eyes trailed, tempted and uncontrollable, over his body. I want you to know that I'll ... I'll do it.  
  
Draco cringed, frowning. What the _hell_ did that mean? Do _what_?! Damn the letter, damn the freakin' piece of shit bloody letter ... Panse would _rot_ for this.  
  
_Do_ his homework for him? _Do_ his evil bidding? Let him _do_ his toned, tan and completely forbidden body?  
  
Draco felt, for the first time in the entirety of his life, that he would faint.  
  
Come again? he managed to choke out weakly, swallowing hard.  
  
I'll do it, Harry repeated, looking him over strangely. Meet you in the broomcloset tomorrow? As long as you _do_ actually bring my clothes. I want them back. Especially my ... just bring everything, all right?  
  
Ahh, right, Draco stuttered. Perhaps the letter wasn't so bad after all, if the only thing in it was a simple invitation to something they'd already done before. Harry didn't appear ready to strangle him; that had to be a good sign. What time did I say to meet again?  
  
You, ehrm, didn't specify a time, Harry replied, giving Draco the same strange look once again. You're flushed, are you all right? Still pissed off over the detention, are you?  
  
Oh, ahh, of course, I must have forgotten, Draco rambled, cursing himself. Meet me at the ten, then, and I'll bring your ruddy clothes. I haven't gotten much use for them, anyway.  
  
He coughed, trying to cover up for the fact that he had no real idea what he was talking about. When he looked up again, he was startled to find the raven-haired boy staring at him with wide eyes, his tan cheeks tinted scarlet.  
  
_Gods, _Harry thought weakly. _He did write it! This doesn't make any sense, he couldn't have, he couldn't ... could he?  
  
Is he _blushing?Draco thought incredulously, his jaw mentally dropping_. Why would he be blushing? The letter ... oh gods, this is so fucking awkward. I need some _air_. I need to know what the hell he's thinking! That letter, what was in it?  
  
_He opened his mouth, ready to ask outright, but thought better of it. He couldn't just _ask _what was in the letter. That would give away that he hadn't written it, which would raise far too many questions that he didn't feel like dealing with. He wanted to meet Harry again. He was almost -- _almost_ -- glad that it had been so rudely prearranged.  
  
Draco spoke up at last, growing warm under the raven-haired boy's intent stare. I guess I'll see you tomorrow night.  
  
Harry breathed, swallowing hard. His head was swimming, his mind lost in confusion; he didn't know what to think of the boy before him. What was true, and what was a lie?  
  
Draco replied uncomfortably. See you, then.  
  
See you, he answered, licking his lips as he did so, still staring at the blonde. He stood there blankly for a moment, as if waiting for something further to happen, and then nodded suddenly and continued on his way to the Great Hall, his gait quicker than usual.  
  
Draco watched him go blankly, his heart still pounding. He would need to torture the letter's contents out of Pansy before the day ended, before he met up with Harry; after all, how else would he know what to discount? He would torture it out of her, all right ... and then he would _kill_ her.  
  
And as far as returning Potter's clothes ... that had obviously been an idea of _hers_. What right did she think she had, promising him that he'd return them? He didn't _want _to return them yet, for some odd reason. Of course, like he'd said himself, it was true that he really had no use for them.  
  
After all, what could he do with a pair of Potter's worn black socks, his mass-produced, cheap fabric made-in-a-Chinese-sweatshop-by-five-year-old-children black slacks, the grey shirt he could have easily found in a gutter? Or his rare, infamous Invisibility cloak? _He_, with his extensive, exclusive wardrobe, could use none of those ...  
  
... his mind paused. _He_ had Potter's_ Invisibility cloak_. And indeed, he _could_ think of a certain way he'd love to use it. A completely immoral, illegal way, yes, a deliciously sinful way ... but a way none the less. And this time around,he wouldn't let himself get caught doing it.  
  
Perhaps this Sunday was not lost after all.  
  
================================================================  
  
**Harry**: I can't believe you're going to do something in my _father's_ Invisibility cloak! Tell me, love, what's your evil plan _this_ time? Deliciously sinful? Going to jack off during Snape's class, maybe?  
  
**Draco**: That mere comment alone goes to show how superior my creativity skills are compared to yours, Potter. It has absolutely nothing to do with jacking off.  
  
**Harry**: You sure about that?  
  
**Draco**: Yes. I'm not a pervert like you.  
  
**Anthea**: Actually, Draco ... ... [continues typing next chapter] ...  
  
**Harry**: ... this is going to make my day.  
  
**Draco**: This is some kind of_ fan-service_, isn't it? Let's all make the bloody reviewers happy, shall we?! Well I say DAMN THE REVIEWERS! SCREW YOU ALL!  
  
**Harry**: I think I'll be getting screwed before they do.  
  
**Draco**: I have _so_ many reasons to hate you.  
  
**Harry**: And yet ... ?  
  
**Draco**: Shut the hell up. 


	17. Defiling Sunday: Feel My Perversity

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: This is probably going to be one of the last completely insane chapters for a while, less the one immediately following this one. I want to focus more on their relationship, and perhaps add in a bit of the Harry Potter drama reality. I don't want to go _too _far off the deep end.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Sunday afternoon _in the story.  
  
=============================================================  
  
Everything pointed to the letter being fake.  
  
He had said himself that he allowed no one to refer to him as less Pansy. He would never have signed the letter with a name he hated. While the handwriting, elegant and somehow very feminine, meshed with his style, its flippant wording did not. He could never imagine Draco speaking with that level of casualness to him, even in writing. _Especially _in writing.  
  
It was possible, of course, that'd he written the letter, realized it was a horrible mistake and thus came up with his shoddy excuse of a plan to reclaim it from Hedwig. It made more sense, however (if that were indeed possible), that someone else had written the letter. Someone meddling and extroverted, and more importantly, someone not afraid of being murdered by a certain infuriated blonde.  
  
He had, indeed, someone in mind. But if he were wrong ... if it turned out to be from Draco, whether written in a drunken stupor or not ... well. He didn't want to think on that. He also didn't want to think on the final line of the letter.  
  
That audacious, unforgettable line. He could think of only several things he could with Draco that required him to be without clothes, and none of them, he thought with slightly widened eyes, seemed at all appropriate.  
  
Of course, he didn't want to go there. Not at all.  
  
If Draco wanted him, the world would collapse around him. There was no other way to put it. In his miserable life, where surprise and danger seemingly waited at each turn, where everything he had learned in his childhood was daily discounted and replaced by something a thousand times stranger, in his world of unpredictable tragedies and twists and incredible outcomes - one thing had remained constant.  
  
Draco. His sneer always perfectly in place, his cold grey eyes always eager to eye him with contempt, his mouth always posed to open and slip out a fresh insult, a new witty sentence designed to knash his heart in. He was always there, waiting around to piss him off. He could not imagine a life without constantly running into the devious, bitter blonde.  
  
And now, tumultuously, in one crazy, incredible week, everything had changed. They were meeting secretly in a broomcloset of all places. He had wore his leather pants, broken into his private chamber, accepted him as a tutor, removed his nail polish, lost his House one hundred and twenty-five points for a towel because of him, woken up naked because of him (though he could still not quite remember that one), and now this. This twisted, confused as all bloody hell letter, a piece of parchment that seemed to be the written equivalent of the insanity this entire week had become.  
  
It was something he had never dreamed would happen, and yet it had. And he, Harry, who just days ago would have laughed at the idea of willfully spending time with Draco Malfoy, had just agreed to meet him again.  
  
He had agreed to let it all go on, to perpetuate the week into another week, and then weeks more, and then perhaps months. He wanted it to go on, for this parade of distractions to continue streaking through his life. He did not know why.  
  
If Draco had written the letter himself ... broomclosets and leather pants aside, that would cross the line. That would be, above all else, impossible and unbelievable. He simply couldn't have, as he was a straight git that would never lay a tender hand on him in his life. That was the way it would be.  
  
Harry blinked, still staring up at the ceiling of his canopy-draped bed. He had drawn the curtains, wanting to spend time in the shadows, lost in his own thoughts. He had, for over twenty minutes, though after all that thinking he felt as though he hadn't thought at all. He had arrived at no conclusion, his final thought on the subject this: _It's impossible. It will never happen. Don't panic yourself over something that will never become reality.  
  
_Still, his hands were sweating terribly, and he could not let the letter go. He let its words circle around in his head for minutes more, straining his mind with wonder. He would have no need for his clothing? If he didn't, then surely, neither would _he_. An image flooded his mind at this, a picture of the blonde sprawled out on the black leather sofa, his platinum hair spilling across one of its silky ebony pillows, glinting silver eyes half-closed and dark with lust ... staring at him as he stared down in return, hungrily taking in his unclothed body ...  
  
Harry shot his eyes open, his heart pounding. He took in a deep breath, calming himself while simultaneously washing the image from his mind.   
  
_No. No. Gods, please ... no!  
  
_He sat up, pushing aside his curtains and forcing himself to roll out of bed. He had decided that he needed a nice, relaxing ... and unusually cold shower.  
  
================================================================  
  
Draco sighed, hovering in the deserted corridor that he somehow knew led to the Gryffindor Tower. He had seen countless red-and-gold-clad students disappear down this hallway, and yet, in his full five and a half years as Hogwarts' sexiest blonde brat, he had never bothered to follow them. He cursed himself for that now, knowing full well that even if he had followed someone in the past, he didn't know their current password anyway.  
  
Tormenting famous brunettes was fastly becoming rather boring. He thought for a second, though vaguely, of returning to the Slytherin dungeons; he didn't have the energy to wait another minute for some unknowing sap to come wandering back to their common room. Everyone was still eating their goddamned lunches ...  
  
He sighed a second time, tugging impatiently at the silvery cloak he had draped over his thin body. For all his luck, he would fall asleep against the wall before anyone could come along, and then they would trip over him and give him away, and he'd get screwed over with his second interrogation that morning, and then ...  
  
... he heard something.  
  
I honestly don't know, a steady female voice spoke, becoming louder as it neared. Draco smiled slowly; that voice was deliciously familiar. I'm sure the letter had to be something important, or else he wouldn't have been told to intercept it. Surely Harry has read it by now; we'll just ask him about it when we see him.  
  
Oh, they were still going on about the morning's events. How predictably pathetic ... always obsessing over their friend's much more exciting life. But what else could he expect from Potter's two favorite sidekicks?  
  
I don't know if it'll be that easy, a more befuddled voice replied. He never did come down for lunch, or come back to meet us during breakfast. I'll bet you he's upset over something. And other than that, he's been so secretive lately .. he wouldn't admit to it when I asked him, but I swear he's been coming in late at night.  
  
There was that one night you said he never came back at all, the feminine voice huffed. He never said a word about that. He came to breakfast wearing a towel of all things ... how can you lose the clothes off your own back?  
  
A pause. Draco snickered beneath his cloak, remembering that morning well. Seeing him walk into the Great Hall wearing nothing but a plush, white terrycloth rectangle and his own unbuttoned pink silk shirt .. letting his toned abdomen and chest be seen by everyone, including himself .. he'd had a brief but sudden desire for his golden Quidditch binoculars that day .. but the points, the points! All those points from Gryffindor .. those had been the best part of it all .. of course ..  
  
I don't bloody know, the boy said, his voice filled with dull wonder. I tell you, maybe he's been seeing someone behind our backs.  
  
That's silly, the girl replied too quickly. Why would he trust us with everything that happens with You-Know-Who and yet hide a relationship from us? I thought of that as well, though, and I've been watching Cho. She hasn't been acting strangely or anything like that. She's been doing nothing but ignore him as usual.  
  
Maybe it's not Cho? the boy answered hesitantly. It could be someone else. Some other girl, you know.  
  
Dear gods, they were actually going to explore the idea. Draco groaned behind the cloak, watching as Hermione and Ron, walking slowly side-by-side, finally came into clear view. Were they really so dense as to think that?  
  
Honestly, like who? Hermione sighed. He doesn't really socialize with anyone other than us, you know how much he's isolated himself this year. How could he have gotten close enough to someone to date them?  
  
Maybe it's Lavender, Ron pondered, frowning.   
  
Lavender would never keep her mouth shut about it, Hermione replied tartly, discounting the idea immediately.  
  
Or maybe Pavarti? he tried again, doubt screwed completely into his face.  
  
Harry isn't that shallow, the bushy-haired girl answered shrilly, shifting the heavy bookbag hanging from her thin shoulder.  
  
Well I don't know, Hermione! It could be anyone! the redhead exclaimed, exasperated now. Your guess is as good as mine.  
  
Maybe he isn't seeing anyone at all, she replied thoughtfully.  
  
Ron sighed, shaking his head slowly. Hell if I know. I guess we'll find out when Harry's ready to tell us about it.  
  
Yes, you're right. Unless we find some evidence that something is wrong, we should leave Harry his privacy. Come to think on it ... he's seemed happier lately, hasn't he? No, not even that; more alive.  
  
She smiled, turning to her companion warmly. His eyes widened with slight surprise, and he nodded immediately.  
  
he said quickly, stuttering slightly. More alive. Maybe it _is_ a girl.  
  
For Harry's sake, I hope it is. He needs someone to touch him.  
  
T-Touch him, Mione? What exactly do you mean?  
  
Oh _honestly_, Ronald! Get your mind out of the gutter! I meant reach him in a way we, as his friends, cannot!  
  
Ohh. Right, course ... _touch_ him touch him .. not touch him touch him ..  
  
_Morons_, Draco thought bitterly, watching as they walked past him in the hallway. He stepped away from the wall as soon as they did so, following them closely. How could they think he was seeing a _woman_? It was nothing more than an insult to his glorious self.  
  
_He_ was the one responsible for stealing Potter away in the night, not some ruddy piece of female arse. How could they think it was anyone else? Their dearest friend, as far as he was concerned, belonged fully to him.  
  
At least, some deeper part of himself wanted to claim that.  
  
In front of him, Granger and Weasley had returned to their rambling, discussing the Transfiguration essay they'd been assigned over the past week. The first was going on about it incessantly, detailing the sources she had used, while the latter answered dully and with half a heart. It was painfully boring, having to follow Potter's grungy friends out of all the oblivious Gryffindors that could have come along.  
  
Draco sighed as he watched Granger's arse bob along in front of him, pitying himself mentally at his sore plight. After all, what had he done to deserve this? Why couldn't it have been a silent, solitary little third-year? Why the two lesser parts of the Hogwarts dream team? Why, why, why why .. _wait_.  
  
Just wait. Granger's arse, in front of him. She and the Weasel, alone together with him. Wearing an invisibility cloak that made him oblivious to their pathetic eyes.  
  
He could work with this.  
  
.. the principle of turning a teacup into another inanimate object, a kettle for example, is much more difficult than turning one into something living, take a mouse for instance, which implies that life requires more skill to conjure than nonliving objects. You can imagine that animal rights' activists have .. Hermione went on, chatting comfortably with her friend, who was frowning and appearing to be rather miserable.  
  
Yeah, I can imagine ..  
  
Draco snickered, closing the distance between himself and the pair. He reached his hand out slowly, his smirk deepening with each inch it crept forward. Fucking around with the Weasel and his mudblood would-be girlfriend was always a pleasant kick.  
  
.. maintained that transfiguring objects into animals is immoral as it takes life into one's own _yeeeiiick!  
  
_Hermione jerked, jumping up and spinning around immediately, her face pale with shock. Draco stood, undetected and smirking delightedly, behind her, all the while wiping his right hand on his trouser leg. He had pinched the arses of several girls before, but this was not one he'd defiled simply for fun.  
  
The bushy-haired girl stood panting for a moment before turning then to Ron, whose eyes were wide with surprise as well, not knowing why his friend had suddenly shrieked and jumped up.  
  
What's wrong? he asked as Hermione stared widely at him, her jaw slackening. Why did you shout like that?  
  
Y-You .. she stuttered, not believing what had just seemingly taken place.  
  
You okay? he asked, frowning at the blank look in her wide chocolate eyes, very reminiscent to a doe stuck in headlights. Did you trip on a loose stone?  
  
R-Ronald Weasley .. she began weakly, finally finding her voice. Y-You're ... you're _perverse!_  
  
Draco snickered as he watched Ron's face cave in, paling as confusion instantly flooded it.  
  
You mean perverse as in a .. _pervert_?he asked incredulously, his frown deepening as he failed to realize what at all was happening around him. What? I mean, _why? _What the bloody hell brought _that_ on?  
  
Don't pretend that you didn't just do that, Ronald! Hermione huffed shrilly, shock fastly being replaced by anger. Did you think I wouldn't _feel _it? Look around! Do you see anyone else that could have done it?!  
  
Feel .. feel what? Ron whimpered, thoroughly lost.   
  
Feel your .. your .. your _perversity!  
  
_Feel my perversity? he repeated doubtfully. Where exactly is that?  
  
Oh - _oooohhh_! Hermione shrieked, too infuriated to find words. Just stay away from me, Ronald! _Honestly! _I would have expected better from you! I thought you _respected_ me!  
  
I do respect you, Hermione! Ron argued loudly, frowning miserably at the same time. I _really _respect you! Just tell me what I did, and I'll apologize!  
  
YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!  
  
With this, Hermione turned away, her face red from both anger and embarrassment. She began to storm her way down the hallway, bookbag swinging at her side, leaving Ron to wait in her dust.  
  
H-Hermione! Wait up, would you?! Tell me what happened!  
  
Draco clasped his clean left hand over his mouth, stifling his laughter. This was just too rich. He'd expected her to be pissed off, furious even, but this? This was far too amusing. The Weasel's innocent stammerings and utter confusion only added to the show, making the entire scene priceless. He quickened his step, following the pair down the twisting corridors.  
  
Please wait! Ron called weakly, jogging up behind her as she began only to walk faster. _Please _Hermione, I'm telling the truth, I don't know what you're bloody going on about!  
  
Draco ran up behind the swift brunette, smirking eagerly. As she continued on down the hall with Ron running helplessly behind her, pleading, he reached forward a second time, this time grasping the edge of her knee-length pleated skirt.  
  
He lifted it two feet high, laughing to himself at what he saw. He'd been expecting burgundy and gold stripped panties, but the delicate-looking white lace seemed amusing enough anyway. Women's underwear was all the same to him, really.  
  
He dropped it quickly, knowing that the damage was done. Ron had slowed his run to a stunned stop, his eyes wide and his jaw dropped completely as he continued to stare at Hermione's lower half. She had stopped as well, standing frozen for a moment before spinning around, a deadly expression on her already infuriated face. Her murderous glare snapped the redhead back into reality.  
  
It wasn't .. uhh .. woah ..  
  
I've had _enough _of this, Ronald! she shouted, loud enough so that the other boy cringed in defeat. You are so perverted it is _disgusting! _I don't know what's suddenly come over you, but please, grow up and start treating me like the woman deserving of respect that I am! I just ... I can't believe you! I can't believe any of this!  
  
Me .. me either .. Hermione, it wasn't me! It was .. it was ..  
  
It was what, Ronald? Really, do tell me, she snapped bitterly, her eyes narrowing. Draco snickered, clutching his stomach as he held in his laughter.  
  
It was .. ahh .. it was the wind! It had to have been the wind or something, it's uhh .. it's drafty .. and .. but it wasn't me, it was .. it was ..  
  
The wind? Hermione repeated, her voice black. The _wind_, Ronald?! I can't, I just can't ... I can't believe ... _oooohh_! Just leave me be! If you follow me anywhere, I swear I'll hex your hands permanently onto _your ... oooh_! _Good-bye_, Ronald!  
  
But Hermione, honestly, it wasn't me! I don't know what it was but it wasn't me! I swear to the gods, it wasn't ... hey, come on, listen to me! Please?!  
  
Draco followed the arguing pair calmly, laughing to himself as he went along. This Invisibility cloak was the best goddamned thing that had ever happened to him, and to think that this was only the beginning of it all .. Potter really was a pussy. Who could own one of these and yet resist the temptation to raise complete hell, ruining the lives of anyone that crossed you? This shimmery square of fabric was a kiss from whatever twisted Heaven was currently smiling down on him.  
  
All three took a sudden right turn, and Draco found himself in a corridor that cumulated in a dead end, hanging over which was a massive painting of an equally massive woman.  
  
Quidditch countdown! Hermione shouted shrilly at the Fat Lady, who stared down at her with alarmed eyes, shocked at her rudeness, before allowing the door to swing open. Ron panted after her, disappearing behind her through the hole in the stone wall.  
  
Draco was the last to go through, slinking past the portrait just as it was beginning to swing closed. He found himself in the Gryffindor common room, a spacious, circular expanse littered with comfy, overstuffed burgundy armchairs and warmed by a massive stone fireplace. He looked it over smugly, delighted with how simple it was; the Slytherin common room by far rivaled it.  
  
He looked away from the room just in time to see Hermione storm up the first of two twin burgundy-covered staircases, her bookbag swinging wildly. Ron had given up, as Draco spotted him sinking miserably into an armchair, his face contorted into a terrible sulk.  
  
If Granger had disappeared up the stairs to the left, that meant that the staircase leading to the Gryffindor boys' dormitories had to be the one on the right. Draco easily chose this one, slinking up with a delighted grin on his face.  
  
That had been fun, but it was, of course, just a fortunate bit of pre-show entertainment. If his luck continued, he would see much more - so, so much more. He doubted that he would be granted said luck, due to a thing known as karma, however ... one could hope. And after his two shots of firewhiskey, he was more than hoping. He was waiting.  
  
His fun was just beginning. He would remember, later, to properly thank Harry for him this divine piece of enchanted fabric.  
  
================================================================  
  
**Draco**: And another nine page piece of shit chapter is born. Bleeding crap, why is it _me_ that always has to proofread these pages of disgrace?! GET A FUCKING BETA, YOU LAZY GODDAMNED PSYCHO AUTHORESS!  
  
**Harry**: Shut up, Draco. You'll wake her up. It's two in the morning.  
  
**Draco**: Like I give a flying broomstick shoved up her lazy arse.  
  
**Harry**: ... right. Have you finished reading over the new chapter yet?  
  
**Draco**: Yes ... I even made the wavy red lines go away ... why?  
  
**Harry**: Okay then. She instructed me to you when you finished.  
  
**Draco**: Reward me, huh? I don't bloody think so. This is some kind of sick thing again, and I know it. They're _watching_ us, you know.  
  
**Harry**: You have no choice. Here. Take it.  
  
**Draco**: ... a glass of Arbor Mist wine? The hell?! This is pussy wine!  
  
**Harry**: It's her favorite kind. It's probably the only sort she has around.  
  
**Draco**: Well fuck this! I WANT FIREWHISKEY, BITCH! FIREWHISKEY!  
  
**Harry**: It's alcohol, Draco. I'd take it if I were you. She gave us the whole bottle, so ... I'll refill it for you once you down it ...  
  
**Draco**: The whole goddamned bottle? That must ... it's a trap! WE WON'T FALL FOR IT, YOU SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAG! I COULD NEVER GET DRUNK ENOUGH TO SHAG POTTER!  
  
**Harry**: You're right. You'd like it so much better sober, wouldn't you?  
  
**Draco**: Just give me the bottle. It's been a long night.  
  
**Harry**: Or at least, it will be ...  
  
**Draco**: Just pour it out, Potter.  
  
(Fun fun authoress fact: I downed two glasses of Arbor Mist wine while writing this chapter. Blame the pantyshot on them.) 


	18. Terror of the Gryffindor Shower Room

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: This chapter is so fun. I really enjoy it, even if I'm not totally satisfied with some parts of it. Also, a few people (all right, maybe ten or so) reviewed to tell me that Draco's memory of Harry in the Great Hall was .. well, impossible, as he was never there to see it. You're right, and I'm too lazy to go back and change it right now. I hope it didn't confuse you too badly, and I'll try to be more accurate in the future .. I'd had a glass of wine, and it was very late at night, so ... I apologize! I hope you don't find any impossibilities in this one.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Sunday afternoon _in the story.  
  
=============================================================  
  
Draco hadn't yet formulated an actual _plan_ for what he was going to do once he found and entered the sixth year Gryffindor boys' dormitory. As he climbed the stairs quickly, eagerly, with mischief flowing through his veins, his only real motivation was the general goal he had had for years as Potter's rival: ravage the Golden Boy's seemingly blessed life. His vague idea of what he would do when he reached the dormitory was based solely on that mantra. He would play some kind of trick on him, something spontaneous and much like what he had done with Granger and her red-haired future lover - perhaps rummage through his school trunk and steal a few interesting items - nothing far from the ordinary.  
  
How very wrong he was.  
  
He outstretched his clothed hand to the knob of the door he had narrowed down to be the right one, his lips lifted wickedly upward at the corners of his mouth, his victorious smirk practiced and perfect. His mind was alive with brilliant, absurd ideas. He was ready. He twisted the knob, opening the door with little caution.  
  
It swung open in front of him, revealing what he had expected; a dormitory cloaked in bright, gaudy Gryffindor pride. He scowled at the burgundy bedhangings as he walked haughtily in, his nose curling at the sight of moving Quidditch posters pinned to the walls. It was all too predictable, lacking in both taste and originality - he shuddered to think that Potter willfully _lived _in the red and gold dump.  
  
At this thought, he turned his head from side to side, eying the room a second time. It was empty of everyone, eerily quiet now that he had stopped to notice it. He frowned deeply; then where the hell was _Potter?  
  
Ahh, well, _Draco thought, his insides sinking with disappointment. _At least I still get to go through all his shit. Payback time, you sneaky little bastard.  
  
_He sauntered further into the room, opening the trunk furthest to the left. Its inside was extremely cluttered, littered with beaten textbooks, crumpled wads of old parchment, balls of old tests, and leftover candy wrappers. The blonde sneered at the mess; even Potter wasn't that much of a slob. The clothes didn't match his usual wardrobe, either; Draco moved on.  
  
The next truck was locked. He kicked it sourly, not feeling up to barraging it with unlocking spells. He would come back to it later, if Potter's trunk proved to not be among the others. As such, he continued lazily onto the third trunk, the toes on his right foot aching slightly.  
  
He opened this one with an audible click, peering inside. There were a few current textbooks, some items packaged carefully in brown paper, a lumpy Zonko's bag, and folded clothes heaped into a tilting pile. Draco went through the stack carefully, grinning slowly as he recognized Potter's typical style; drudgy, inexpensive dark clothing, either grey or black, or rarely navy or deep green; sweaters and long-sleeved hooded jackets, simple gloomy t-shirts. Beneath these were a few enormous plaid shirts, several pairs of black slacks, and a single pair of khakis.   
  
The blonde smiled. This was his rival's trunk indeed.  
  
He stood there for a moment, bent over the open chest, pondering. It would take the brunet days, if not longer, to notice that one of the wrapped items was missing. After all, how often could Potter take them out if they were so carefully wrapped and stored? It also didn't seem worth stealing his clothing. It had been done before, for one thing, and Draco loathed unoriginality above many things; and unlike his leather pants and pink shirt, Potter really owned nothing that significantly stood out. Nothing he could embarrass him with.  
  
He sighed, righting himself and letting the trunk slam shut. It just wasn't worth the bloody effort.   
  
He walked over to his rival's bed instead, letting his eyes linger on the disheveled, unmade sheets and burgundy blankets that topped it. His chest felt strangely hollow as he allowed himself to stare at the lull in the mattress that was a shadow of Potter's weight having once been there, the depression in the pillow from his head, his wild black hair.  
  
He wished, for a vague moment, that he could have been around to see the other boy lying there, peaceful and quiet for once, his eyes closed to him. He had grown weary of the eyes that locked on him, became open and irate, flooded with hate and anger, with loathing and a fiery urge to inflict pain. He just wanted to see him calmly resting, to be near him and have the other be left oblivious, not knowing he was there at all.  
  
Or perhaps, he wished that he had been there, beside him, his body making a second lull in the mattress to the left of the first. Lying with him as he slept - slept knowing that he was there next to him, slept trusting him not to stab him to death as he dreamt.   
  
Draco tilted his head gently to the side, his frown deepening suddenly.  
  
It was wrong to wish for impossible things.  
  
He trailed his hands along the mused bedthings, wishing he had never come at all. His desire to trick and torture had stilled, frozen away for a different time and place. The bright, cheery room was nothing but depressing now.  
  
He turned, ready to leave the room. Then, and only then, did he hear it.  
  
The faint, almost inaudible sound of running water. He turned his head back, following the sound to a door in the wall of the dormitory, a door he had overlooked. It was slightly ajar, a stream of unnatural light flowing out from the crack.  
  
Draco pursed his lips, wondering. He didn't want to be in the room any longer; his chest was heavy, his emotions sunk low in his stomach. And yet ... someone was taking a shower. Some innocent, unsuspecting Gryffindor was taking a shower.  
  
He could at least sneak in, close his eyes and twist the knob over to icy cold, couldn't he? He smiled in vain at this, trying to perk himself up. It hardly worked, but he thought to himself: what the fuck? He couldn't be a miserable sap for long with such a useful cloak draped over his thin shoulders.  
  
With a bored expression on his face, Draco made his way toward the bathroom door. He pushed it open carelessly, peering inside and raising an eyebrow at what he saw, though it was only a typical setup. There was a row of four sinks, above which sat a long mirror; a row of urinals and two stalls with toilets. The floor was polished wood, reflecting the floating candles of the ceiling above brightly enough to make the blonde openly sneer at the glare.   
  
And there, beyond everything and at the end of the room, directly across from the door: a very wide entrance with a width of perhaps seven or eight feet. No door blocked the bathroom from the area beyond it, the only thing indicating that it was a different area the tiled floor and walls it contained. Draco frowned, noting the showerheads and knobs protruding from the walls within this area.  
  
A communal shower. How bloody Gryffindor could you get? Be loyal to your comrades - loyal enough to shower with them everyday! He smirked; he and Blaise would have a good laugh over this later.  
  
The shower continued to the right of the doorway, blocking a large section of it away from view. Draco inched into the bathroom, feeling slightly cheered now. He noticed a pile of clothes dumped unceremoniously just in front of the shower entrance; ahh, lovely. Perhaps they had money in their pockets.  
  
Draco neared the clothing, kneeling in front of it eagerly. He reached out for a pair of black slacks, burying his hand into its right front pocket. He rummaged for a second, finally pulling out a crumpled piece of folded parchment. He grinned, opening it quickly.  
  
What he saw made his face fall immediately, his grin shattering into a shaky gasp.  
  
In his hands, crumpled though folded carefully, was Pansy's goddamn letter.  
  
Draco looked at the letter for a long moment, his jaw dropped. It registered to him after a minute that he should read it - after all, he'd nearly gotten his ass whipped over the cursed thing - and yet, he could not seem to bring his mind to digest the words. Only one thought was racing, inescapable, through his mind.  
  
_It was Potter in the shower.  
  
_He looked up weakly at the entrance to the communal shower, the sound of distant running water now pounding in his ears. His heart seemed to slow with the shock, or rather the possibility, of this realization, his blood flowing hot and alive through his pale body. As if possessed, he found himself standing, his legs moving themselves toward the wide entrance.  
  
He shoved the letter, now mostly forgotten, into his pocket, bracing his hand against the tiled doorframe. Carefully and slowly - very, _very_ slowly - he leaned forward, peering beyond the entrance and into the shower room.  
  
His heart nearly stopped at what he saw.  
  
Standing there, his back to him, was his rival. Streams of warm water ran down his body, giving his tanned, bronze skin a wet, almost glossy appearance. It ran through his black hair in rivulets, soaking it into a thick, wavy raven mass. Draco nearly gasped as he ran his hand back through it carelessly, sending a wave of droplets into the steamy air.  
  
_ Dear gods_, he thought weakly. _That is the best fucking ass I have ever seen.  
  
_His golden body, complete with toned chest and arm muscles and a taut stomach, had never looked better, glorious now in the moist air and flickering candlelight. Even his firm arse was nothing less than divine. This sight was greater even then the night he had spent taking advantage of the fucked-up adrenaline draught, kissing the delirious boy while he was clothed only in a towel.   
  
The only problem was that he was .. _so_ .. far away.  
  
Moving forward as though lost in a trance, Draco inched his way into the shower room, stepping carefully on the wet tiled floor. He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat as he went, his eyes locked on the boy he was nearing. He felt his palms begin to sweat, whether a cause of the warm, steamy air or the sight in front of him he did not know. All he knew, all he wanted in that moment was to get closer and closer to the mirage before his eyes.  
  
He stopped only when he was mere feet in front of his rival's bronze, nude body, his heart clenched with nervousness. His senses were frantic, his eyes finding too much to take in all at once: the other boy's toned, tanned body, glowing with health and strength .. the curve of his shoulder, the parted lips on his face, half-hidden by his dripping raven hair. He could only stare at the boy before him, his own lips parted with dull wonder, his mind silenced by awe.  
  
It took immense self-control for Draco to stop himself from reaching out his hands, both of which were longing to place themselves gently on the other boy's hips, eager to draw him closer. It was only when he finally felt his growing arousal begging for attention that he snapped back into reality. Only then did a faint voice in the back of his mind awaken, a familiar voice that chanted without words how wrong this was, how he was _not _a damned homosexual, how he could _not_ be wanting Potter, how he should just fucking leave, forget the entire event and drown himself in denial.  
  
Of course, by this point, the voice was far too late.  
  
Draco started when Harry suddenly moved, reaching his arm out to the side, his hand groping for a blue glass bottle of cleansing potion, which sat on a tiled shelf several feet away. He wasn't looking at the bottle, reaching for it out of habit more than anything. The blonde noticed, when the other boy briefly turned his head toward him, that he seemed to be lost in thought himself, his emerald green eyes dull and wide, unfocused. He shivered at the look on his face, so distant - it was eerie how he was staring right at him, how he was forced to stare through him, unable to sense him at all. His guard was down completely.  
  
It was a sharp contrast to the Potter that glared icily at him nearly every day, staring him down as if he knew all of his thoughts, his schemes, his emotions. It unnerved him; he almost liked it better when he could be seen. Without it, the other's eyes were dead to him.  
  
Potter had turned away, still groping for the bottle. Draco slid over to the shelf, finally noticing the wetness that had sunk into his black clothing from hovering in the shower. He frowned darkly, annoyed at this, but ignored it as he reached out his own invisible hand. He slid a single finger behind the bottle, waiting as Potter's fingers drew nearer.  
  
Then, with a slight smile, he flicked his finger and knocked the bottle off the shelf.  
  
It landed with a loud clatter on the tiled floor, a noise that echoed harshly in the small room. The blonde bit back a small laugh as Harry jumped, startled, and snapped his head to the bottle on the floor. It was rolling in a crescent rather innocently, still corked.  
  
Draco watched with a lopsided half-smile as the brunet sighed, bending down to pick up the cleansing potion. It gave him an incredible view of his arse, one he did not intend to forget anytime soon.   
  
All too quickly, and quite sadly, Potter righted himself, uncorking the bottle and pouring a small puddle of the thick, silver-blue liquid into his open palm. He smeared it lazily onto his chest, rubbing it into his skin as it mixed with streams of water, changing quickly into a thick, bubbly white foam. The blonde watched, entranced, as he rubbed it down his arms and then thighs. He was disappointed for an idle moment that his tanned hands had not lingered on the area between his taut stomach and legs, as his own silver eyes did.  
  
He was so fucking lucky. No wonder it was said that the gods favored Sunday.  
  
The boy in front of him was beautiful, sublimely oblivious. The things he was doing - washing himself, for one - probably felt boring and ordinary to him, but to Draco, it was a gorgeous performance, better than any strip tease he'd ever had the liberty to see. The aching bulge beneath the crotch of his black pants betrayed him; he wanted Potter.  
  
Screw reality. He wanted to reach out, to grab the other boy without warning, frightening him. He wanted to spin him around and throw him against the tiled wall, to push his own body against his and kiss him roughly, shoving his tongue into his mouth and ravishing him, tearing away at his well-known naivety, sinking his teeth gingerly into his tan throat -  
  
  
  
Draco froze, his lovely fantasy crumbling at the intruding voice. It was familiar, one that made his blood boil at the sound of it alone. It was a voice from a nightmare, a voice that _should not be anywhere near _the two of them now. It was the voice of Satan himself.  
  
Harry, is that you showering in there?  
  
_Jesus bleeding Christ, leave us the fuck alone, _Draco's mind growled angrily, his hands clenching into tight fists. He backed away from Harry and into the tiled wall, bracing himself against it in an effort to control his fury.  
  
Yeah, Ron, Harry called suddenly, now letting the pouring water wash away the suds littering his body. It's me.  
  
Draco was seething. He let his body slump onto the wall, sliding down it a bit so that he was half standing, half sitting against it. This could _not _be bloody happening. The Weasel was _not _ruining this for him.  
  
Oh, ahh, well. I was just looking for you .. wanted to talk .. the weirdest thing happened in the, ahh, corridor .. and now .. Hermione ..  
  
_Oh just shut the fuck up and go away, neither of us give a damn about your goddamned problems, _Draco's mind heaved, his lips pursed. He was boiling over with anger, and yet, at the same time, he had never felt more regretful for screwing with the Weasel in his life.  
  
Goddamn karma.  
  
I can't hear you over the water, Ron! Harry called back loudly, frowning. He could hear the sulk in his friend's voice, keying that something was wrong, but he couldn't quite make out his words. Still, he sensed no panic, and as such felt it could wait until he stepped out of his shower.  
  
Oh, all right .. is it okay .. I think I'll just shower now too .. before dinner .. I feel kind of ..  
  
_Dear gods. NO.  
  
_That's fine, Ron, Harry shouted back. I'm almost done, anyway.  
  
Someone on the other side hated him, loathed him, fucking wanted to make him stab himself in the head right now, and Draco knew it. He had always had a leery feeling in his stomach when he thought about all the things he'd done to screw with the Gryffindor Trio's lives, an odd sort of fearful feeling that warned of the consequences. He had been waiting for Harry to cut off his hair, to hex him, murder him perhaps.  
  
But never this. Not this. Not the Weasel - _nude - _in front of him.  
  
He had to get out of the shower room as soon as bloody possible.  
  
Draco torn his eyes away from the nude god in front of him, standing fully upright and straightening the cloak around him. He made his way then, rushing slightly, back to the entrance to the communal shower. He peered around the doorway, his jaw dropping in horror at what he saw.  
  
The Weasel was already there, in the bathroom, undressing himself. His burgundy sweater lay discarded on the wooden floor, and he was now undoing his thin leather belt, unbuttoning his jeans. Draco's stomach did a sickened sort of flip-flop, and he twisted back into the shower, away from this terrible sight. He sighed at the happy picture of a naked Potter, now calmly washing his hair, oblivious to the panicked boy just feet away from him.  
  
He was so screwed.  
  
He leaned back against the tiled wall, panting from slight fear. He waited, listening as the Weasel finished taking off his clothing, and then, in horror, he heard the soft padding of bare feet approaching. He was coming.  
  
A moment later, Ron entered the communal shower, strutting into it lazily. Draco's eyes bulged when he saw him, but he closed them hurriedly, calming himself. He would not let his eyes wander down below eye level under _any _circumstance. He thought, vaguely, that the terrible sight of it might turn him to stone, or at the very least screw his mind over in some way.  
  
He swallowed, his anger returning slowly. He could not let Potter shower with this disgusting, dirt-blooded boy. He simply could _not_ allow it - this was not a time for fear. This was a time for action, and action he would indeed take.  
  
As Ron walked into the shower room, Draco quickly stuck out his leg.  
  
As predicted, he stumbled over it horribly, swearing loudly as he tripped and found himself falling headfirst toward the tiled ground. He screamed as he hit it with a loud, wet smack, his forehead and nose cracking loudly against the hard surface.  
  
Harry spun around immediately at the sound, walking quickly over to his friend.  
  
Ron, are you all right? Did you slip?  
  
He outstretched a hand down to the redhead, who sat up slowly and took it, his mind swimming. Harry helped him to stand, frowning at the nasty red, raised bump that was already forming on his forehead.   
  
That looks terrible. Let's get dressed and head up to the hospital wi-  
  
No, no mate, I'm fine, Ron mumbled. He sniffled, grimacing as a stream of blood dribbled from his nose. I'll be fine, just .. ahh .. let me take my shower ..  
  
Well, all right. You should be more careful, though, the floor's slippery in here.  
  
Harry, who had not noticed the stream of blood, walked back to his own showerhead, beginning now to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Ron walked slowly up to an unused showerhead, turning on the water in a daze, a confused expression on his face.  
  
Draco, who had initially held back laughter at the Weasel's unfortunate tumble, was now back to controlling his rage. While he had found the fall hilarious, seeing Harry - a _naked_ Harry none the less - walk close to him and help him back up had done nothing more than make his blood boil even wilder.  
  
He made his way carefully over to Ron's shower, taking great care to avoid looking at anything but his shoulders and freckled head. He waited there, patiently, and allowed the Weasel a few minutes of peaceful showering.  
  
After this, he slowly reached his hand out, tightening it around the knob. With an irate smirk, he turned it sharply, then pulled his hand away just as quickly as he had reached it out.  
  
A few brief seconds ... and then he heard the scream.  
  
AHHH! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!  
  
Ron ran out of the shower's stream, swearing loudly under his breath. Harry looked over at him, startled, and frowned severely. Draco took this brief moment of distraction to reach over and turn the knob back to its normal position.  
  
The water! It got bloody hot all of a sudden! Ron shouted, wincing at his bright red skin. Like boiling hot, Harry!  
  
Harry frowned, moving over to Ron's showerhead. He gingerly darted his hand under the water. It rained down over his fingers, now back to a comfortable, slightly warm temperature.  
  
Well, I don't know what happened, Ron, he said, puzzled. But the water's fine now.  
  
Draco snickered quietly beneath the cloak, delighted with the expression of pure horror on Ron's face. He looked around the shower room fearfully, searching for some kind of explanation, but, of course, could find nothing. After a moment, he carefully went back into the shower, frowning worriedly as he did so.  
  
Draco gave him five minutes to recover from the shock of this, five minutes to regain trust in the showerhead and begin to once again shower with relative calm instead of heightened anxiety. His smirk deepened as he stepped closer to the Weasel once again, his arms outstretched.  
  
He pushed him suddenly, grinning as the other boy gasped, slamming against the wall to his left and then sliding dangerously across the wet floor, his legs flailing. He fell at last, hard and with a loud, familiar smack, on the tiled floor, this time directly on his arse.  
  
He had cried out from the shock, and was wincing now with pain. As he began to slowly and carefully stand, Harry eyed him suspiciously, frowning.   
  
Having trouble, Ron? Is something wrong?  
  
Draco bit his lip, suppressing a laugh as the red-haired boy frowned miserably, shaking his head. His eyes were wide, fear clear in their blue depths.  
  
I just don't know, mate, he whispered, a trace of panic in his voice. I mean, it's almost like something ... like something just pushed me, I mean, I felt .. I felt .. hands ..  
  
Harry's frown deepened, his expression incredulous.   
  
There's no one in here with us, Ron. Are you sure you didn't just slip?  
  
Yeah mate, I'm bloody sure I didn't just _slip_! Ron snapped, his voice growing steadily louder. I swear, somebody - somebody _shoved_ me! And I bet they did the water thing, too, trying to bloody burn me to death!  
  
Harry frowned further, his brows furrowing in doubt.  
  
Are you saying that .. that someone's trying to kill you, Ron?  
  
The red-haired boy paled at this, looking around the shower room with renewed alarm in his eyes. He swallowed hard, this idea taking a firm hold in his mind.  
  
Maybe ... maybe it's a ghost, mate ..  
  
Draco grinned openly, clasping a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to spill through. Only the Weasel would manage to come up with that - no, not just come up with it, believe it wholeheartedly! His reverse bravery was always such a joy. The Weasel was in the palm of his pale hand, now ..  
  
A ghost, Ron?  
  
Y-Yeah .. I mean .. I don't know what else it could be, he stuttered, shuddering. You know, a ghost kind of like Peeves .. just .. screwing around .. trying to h-hurt me ..  
  
We never had any trouble with the showers in here before, Harry said logically, looking around the silent room carefully.  
  
Yeah, well .. maybe it's a .. a new ghost, you know ..  
  
Oh, this was just _too _rich. Draco chuckled beneath the cloak, delighted that the Weasel was so willing to freak himself out. He hardly had to do any work at all - he filled in the fearful details _himself_.  
  
I don't know, Ron, Harry repeated doubtfully. I mean, why would a ghost be out to get you all of a sudden? It just doesn't make any sense.  
  
Maybe it's just evil, Ron offered, his voice still a little shaky.  
  
Draco smirked at this, nodding cheerfully behind his invisible barrier.  
  
Harry repeated, his suspicious frown deepening along with his voice, his face darkening. Or maybe it's someone in an invisibility cloak.  
  
Draco froze at this, his smirk slipping away as quickly as it had came. He paled, backing away from Potter a single step and drawing the cloak protectively around his shoulders. He couldn't have figured it out. He didn't even touch _him.  
  
_And yet ... Potter probably knew a hell of a lot more about sneaking around in the now cursed item more than he did.  
  
The blonde gulped, an urge to run suddenly overtaking him, though his body, still stunned from the shock of Potter's words, refused to move an inch.  
  
I don't know, Harry, Ron replied uneasily. Those things are rare. I rather doubt that anybody else has one here. And even if someone did, why would they stalk me into the shower? I mean .. the _shower_, mate!  
  
I don't know, Ron, but I'll tell you this. I would love to find out.  
  
Draco's face, if at all possible, paled further. It was time to leave. _Now. _Yet, his body would not obey, still frozen, his eyes locked on the nude boy in front of him, his green eyes now narrowed dangerously.  
  
I'm out of here. Just call for me if you have anymore trouble, Ron.  
  
Oh, sure, fine, the redhead answered quickly. Both he and an invisible Draco watched with slightly wide eyes as Harry stormed out of the communal shower. The blonde heard shuffling noises after a minute, what he took to be him drying off and putting his clothes back on.  
  
The noises subsided quickly, replaced with the soft padding of his feet as they left the bathroom. Ron, hearing the bathroom door creak open and then shut, warily reentered his shower, much to Draco's disgust. He adverted his eyes, for once ignoring the Weasel as he mulled over what had just happened.  
  
If Potter had figured it out, he was royally fucked. There was simply no other way to put it - he would be completely screwed over. This was becoming a pattern now, wasn't it? Fuck with Potter, get screwed over. Fuck with Potter, get screwed over ...  
  
His mind paused. Poor choice of wording there. He would come up with a different mantra to match his miserable life later, one less suggestive. For now ... an escape was in order. He had to leave the shower, the bathroom, and finally the dormitory - all without keen-eyed Potter noticing him.  
  
What a _joyous_ day. He fucking hated Sundays. No wonder it was such a holy day - it was a day of some kind of divine revenge upon arseholes like himself.  
  
His eyes turned, lazily, back to the Weasel's back. He sighed, feeling now a mix of depression, irritation, self-pity, and finally, recklessness. He sauntered over to the tile shelf, picking up the glass bottle of cleansing potion that Potter had used just moments before.  
  
Without much thinking about his plan, he picked up the bottle, holding it so that it was upside-down, its slender top grasped between his thin fingers. Sighing slightly, he threw it toward the Weasel, aiming so that it missed his head by mere inches. The bottle crashed loudly against the wall, the glass shattering immediately.  
  
Even Ron's girlish scream hardly cheered him up.  
  
BLOODY BLEEDING HELL! he shouted, backing away from the shattered glass and oozing foam with a pale, terrified expression marring his face. Someone really _is_ trying to bloody kill me! HARRY!  
  
_How pathetic_, Draco thought blankly._ What a coward. Some ruddy Gryffindor. Going into panic over a mere brush with death ..  
  
_He watched with distaste as Ron backed slowly toward the entrance to the shower room, finally spinning around and bursting into a run. Draco followed him at a quick walk as he sprinted across the bathroom floor, ignoring his clothing completely as he ran.  
  
He opened wildly the door to the dormitory, letting it swing open widely as he began to pant, the exhaustion of having run from the mysterious shower ghost overtaking him. He bent down slightly, letting his breathing slow before he looked up.  
  
Inside the dormitory, two heads jolted upward as the door swung open, hitting the wall loudly as it did so. The raven-haired boy's jaw dropped slightly, his cheeks blushing red for his soon-to-be humiliated friend. The bushy-haired girl's eyes grew wide as saucers, her face too flooding with deep red - whether from embarrassment or anger, no one could tell.  
  
  
  
================================================================  
  
**Draco**: Well, it's heartwarming to know that the Mudblood is being tortured as well in this disgusting excuse for . I wouldn't wish that image on anyone.  
  
**Harry**: No one? Come on.  
  
**Draco**: Fine, fine. _You_, perhaps, you insufferable Gryffindor scarhead.  
  
**Harry**: Oh, that's a new one.   
  
**Draco**: Shut the fuck up. I'm fucking tired.  
  
**Harry**: You should be. You were up all last night .. hardly slept at all ..  
  
**Draco**: Wait, what? I don't remember doing anything last night! I _MUST_ have been sleeping! What else wouldn't you remember doing as you bloody did it?  
  
**Harry**: Trust me, you didn't sleep. You were drunk. I have two words for you.  
  
**Draco**: Don't you dare fucking say it.  
  
**Harry**: .. _Arbor Mist.  
  
_**Draco**: Screw you, Potter.   
  
**Harry**: Great guess ..  
  
**Draco**: .... I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. The damned piece of shit story is proofread, anyway, so where the fuck is she? She should just post it .. get it the hell out of my sight ..  
  
**Harry**: That's it? You're not even going to have fun with it? At least answer some reviews or something.  
  
**Draco**: Yeah, whatever. Too fucking tired. Maybe next time. _If_ they address me as Lord Malfoy instead of fucking _Draaaco_ oh you're so cute and I'm a fucking moronic little fangirl who wants to watch you fuck Potter Draco.  
  
**Harry**: ... right. I'm sure they'll do that. Let's go up to bed now.  
  
**Lord Malfoy**: The fuck? With you, Potter? Think again.   
  
**Harry**: Ehh? What's that? Fuck .. with Potter .. again?  
  
**Lord Malfoy**: I hate what she's done to you. You're a goddamn whore.  
  
**Harry**: Well, at least this way we have one more thing in common!  
  
** Lord Malfoy**: Fuck you, Potter! I did _not_ fucking sleep with you!  
  
**Harry**: ARBOR MIST! Admit it, you stubborn bastard!  
  
**Lord Malfoy**: NEVER! I'M GOING TO BED!  
  
**Harry**: FINE! See you there!  
  
**Lord Malfoy**: FINE! GOOD NIGHT, GRYFFINDOR SLUT!  
  
**Harry**: SWEET DREAMS, DEVIRGINIZED BLONDE!  
  
(**Ms. Rose**: I rather like this chapter, though I'm running out of things for Harry and Draco to ramble about at the end. Answering reviews is such a petty way out, and yet, the prospect of it is so fun. Some of you leave very intriguing reviews, you know. Please keep on inspiring me to continue. Take care, and I hope you enjoyed this round!) 


	19. Awkward Aftermath

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: I'll bet a few of you have been wondering where the hell I've been. I have actually been away, on vacation with my lover, for the past two weeks, and as such have not written. I'm back, though, with this. Sorry for the delay, eheh .. I hope that you enjoy this new chapter! I have the next five all planned out. Good things are on the way, I promise.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **eventual sexual content** (none now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Sunday evening _in the story.  
  
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I came here hoping you were ready to apologize to me, Hermione's muffled voice spoke hurriedly, heavy now with embarrassment and an underlying of deep irritation. I didn't mean to .. ahh .. but _really! _Do you always walk around naked in your dormitory, Ronald? I certainly hope you don't!  
  
After screaming his name and shrieking terribly, the bushy-haired girl had, much to Harry's shock, thrown herself into his arms, hiding her face within his damp shoulder.  
  
He doesn't, thank god, Harry mumbled, patting her awkwardly on the back. Ron had, after the initial scream, ran back into the shower room and dressed like a mad man. He now stood, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, in the doorway to the bathroom, his cheeks burning. Though he was now decent, Hermione was still absolutely unwilling to look in his direction, a fact that was sore for Harry, who was left now with a furious and - though she would never admit it - rather confused girl folded into him.  
  
I'm sorry, Ron muttered, his voice a befuddled whisper that the raven-haired boy was sure she could not hear, her face being pressed so securely into him. I, ahh, didn't know you were there, and ..  
  
Harry was here! Hermione snapped indignantly. The aforementioned boy nodded, sending the redhead a stern glare - he had seen things he had never in his life wanted to see as well.  
  
Well, I just, ehrm, he blushed, running a hand back through his damp hair. Forgot my, uhm .. clothes ..  
  
Hermione made a loud at this, and though her face was hidden, Harry could clearly picture the exasperated expression on her strained face.  
  
Ron frowned, part of his humiliation slipping away. Even in situations such as these - ones in which he alone was at fault - a from Hermione never failed to boil his blood.  
  
It wasn't my fault! he blurted out, throwing his arms into the air. I was running away from the ghost! It nearly bloody murdered me!  
  
There was a long, silent pause, one during which Harry's eyes hardened and he sighed softly. In his arms, the body of the girl stiffened, and then, to everyone's astonishment, a giggle escaped her lips.  
  
A ghost was trying to _kill_ you, Ronald?  
  
Ron froze at this, frowning miserably. On the one hand, laughter was entirely more bearable than anger, but on the _other_ hand, it was Hermione laughing at him. He could never stand it when she mocked him.  
  
Yes, there was! he hissed, gesturing wildly with his hands. It threw a glass bottle of something at me! It was a close miss, shattered on the wall, go see for yourself if you don't bloody believe me!  
  
There was another long pause, and then, for the first time since the incident, Hermione lifted her head from Harry's damp shoulder, blinking. Slowly, she turned toward the redhead in front of her.  
  
Let's see it, then, she whispered, untangling herself from her friend's arms. She stood, hands on her slender hips. Harry stood as well, and as he did, Ron awkwardly turned and cautiously began leading them back into the bathroom.  
  
Hermione followed, looking around the harmless room carefully, as if to find some sort of ghostly aftermath marring the walls and floor. She frowned slightly at the urinals - after all, how often had she set foot in a boys-only bathroom? - and paled at the sight of the shower.  
  
Her eyes perked up, however, when she saw the sparkling wet shards of sharp, shattered blue glass that were strewn across the shower room floor.  
  
I don't believe it, she gasped, bending down to look carefully at them. You were right.  
  
Ron huffed at this, looking at the shattered glass rather haughtily. Next to him, Harry's dark green eyes stared down intensely at the broken bottle, his eyebrows furrowed. From time to time he looked up, glancing around the room in vain.  
  
And you were standing right here? Hermione asked, perplexed and fearful but for the moment, mostly fascinated. She positioned herself carefully beneath the showerhead, only a narrow foot away from the glass explosion.  
  
Bit nearer, actually, Ron mumbled loudly, gingerly biting his lower lip. He was feeling in higher spirits now, Hermione having seemed to have temporarily forgiven him in light of his near death experience.  
  
Why do you say it was a ghost? she questioned, frowning down at the glass. Did you actually see a ghost, or did the bottle just throw itself at you from thin air?  
  
Well, uhm, I didn't actually see the bottle get thrown, Ron explained gravely. But, ahh, there was nobody else in the shower room, and no one could've just snuck in because it happened right after Harry left. He would've seen someone come into the bathroom.  
  
Is that true, Harry? Hermione asked, turning to him. He nodded absently, his eyes and expression distant, as though he were lost deeply in his own world of thought.  
  
he answered automatically. But strange things were happening even while I was in the shower with Ron. He said he felt someone shove him, twice I think.  
  
Hermione gasped, turning to the redhead with new eyes. For the first time, she noticed the large lump on his pale forehead, the bruised flesh disappearing under his red hair.  
  
Oh Ron, are you all right? she cried, rushing over to him and frowning worriedly at his injured forehead.  
  
he huffed, adverting his eyes from her as if to look nonchalant. His blue eyes were brighter than usual, however, and he was biting his lip, holding back an impending smile.  
  
This isn't good, Harry, she whispered, staring up at Ron with wide eyes. Someone honestly did try to hurt him. There's no other reason they'd throw a glass bottle at him - oh, Ron, you could've been really hurt! Imagine if that bottle had hit your head! You'd be lying in here right now, unconscious and bleeding to death!  
  
At this, she walked forward, throwing her arms around his middle in a tight, fearful embrace. He had first paled at the thought of his own death, but when he felt her body push into his, his cheeks were instantly flooded with tomato red.  
  
Harry, watching this, allowed himself a small chuckle before his grave expression returned, his eyes darkening as before. A few long and awkward moments later, Hermione pulled away from Ron, staring down at the tiled floor for longer than needed. Her cheeks were tinted pink at her own audacity.  
  
The question is, who was it? Harry asked severely, his voice low and quiet. He spoke it more as a statement than a question, as though he somehow already knew.  
  
Hermione turned to him, her eyes flickering from him to Ron worriedly.  
  
Could it have been someone in an invisibility cloak? she asked weakly, the seriousness of the situation having finally sunk in, all thoughts of Ron naked and humiliated in front of her for now forgotten.  
  
Harry hissed. Ron frowned at this, his shoulders drooping; they had already had this argument.  
  
But who else would have one, mate? he pondered aloud, his voice loud and disputing. I mean, those things are bloody rare, aren't they? You can't just pick one up in Diagon Alley for a few galleons.  
  
Maybe it was someone _rich_, Harry spoke darkly, his jaw clenched. Or the next best thing: someone that happens to be a _thief.  
  
_He looked around the room once more, glaring at the empty walls as if expecting something to jump out of thin air and confirm everything. Hermione frowned at this odd behavior, but quickly dismissed it.  
  
Or _maybe_ it was a ghost, Ron repeated stubbornly.  
  
Most ghosts don't hurt mortals unless they're out for revenge from their past life, Ronald, Hermione stated firmly, repeating this information as though reading it straight from a book. Unless you happened to murder someone recently, what ghost would come after you?  
  
The redhead frowned, still annoyed that his theory was being constantly discounted. He jerked his head to the side, a gesture that Hermione took to be a nod of agreement.  
  
Well, we're not going to find out anything standing around in here, Harry snapped, his features strained, his lips pursed. It should be time for dinner soon, shouldn't it? Let's just go down.  
  
Hermione frowned, looking doubtfully at the shattered glass on the shower room floor. She drew her wand from her robe, pointing it at the dangerous mess.  
  
she whispered, and in an instant, the glass slid to a single point of origin and rejoined itself. She walked forward, picking up the unbroken bottle and eying it with wide eyes before setting it carefully back on the tiled shelf.  
  
We'll find out who did this, Ron, she spoke, turning to him slowly. Don't worry for now. Just don't shower alone - or go off alone, for that matter - until we figure this out. You'll stick by him, won't you, Harr-  
  
No sooner had the words escaped her lips, a loud crash echoed through the shower room. She shrieked, startled, and spun back to the shelf. There, lying once again in sharp pieces on the floor, was the same glass bottle.  
  
That's _it_! Harry shouted suddenly, running over to the shelf. He threw out his arms, groping at thin air with his hands, all the while moving quickly along the wall. He stopped near the shower room entrance, frozen for a moment as Hermione called out to him.  
  
Calm down, Harry! she yelled, her voice frightened. I might've just put it back too close to the edge!  
  
he nearly screamed, spinning around to face her. I'm sure someone is here, I can _feel _them! They've been here the entire time, listening to every word we've said!  
  
Harry, how can you-  
  
But as he listened to her words, he jolted, feeling for a brief instant something firm and warm slip past him, brushing against him quickly. He spun back around, reaching out toward the entrance, but it was too late.  
  
A moment later, he and the other two occupants hovering in the shower room heard it - the distinct, steady padding sound of two feet running through the bathroom. As the door beyond creaked open, Hermione gasped, rushing, just feet behind Harry, out of the shower in pursuit. Ron followed, his face screwed now in both surprise and anger.  
  
Harry burst from the bathroom just in time to see the dormitory door swing open widely, and then almost as quickly begin to fall closed. He rushed forward, but of course, it was in vain. The intruder had escaped.  
  
He stood there, in the doorway, for a long moment. He had clenched his hands into fists, his mind seething. He could not escape the feeling that he knew exactly who the voyeur had been, who had apparently tried to hurt Ron, or in the very least scare him shitless. He knew, in the back of his mind and the depths of his heart, exactly who it was.  
  
Ignoring the shocked looks of Hermione and Ron, he stormed back into the bathroom, rushing into the shower room with cheeks flushed red with anger, his movements fierce and violent. He pulled his wand from his pocket, pointing it immediately at the shattered glass.  
  
he screamed, his eyes dark with fury. He bent down an instant later, coiling his fingers around the bottle.  
  
He would need to have a little _chat_ with whoever had done this.  
  
===============================================================  
  
Draco let the door to his private chambers shut loudly behind him as he half ran, half stumbled into the elegant room. He made his way to his floating ebony bed, climbing the small set of stairs in a daze and collapsing onto the plush mattress with a long sigh. The invisibility cloak fell onto his face, draping over his lips, and for a moment he could smell him.  
  
Always furious, fucking sexy Harry Potter.  
  
He could almost not believe what he had done. HIs mind was swimming, drowning in image after image, flash after flash of recorded voyeurism that Draco knew he would have a hell of a time erasing. Shampoo running down his cheek, his hand sliding down his toned arm, foam skimming his navel ... he could not dwell on anything less.  
  
Vaguely, in the back of his mind, a voice was screaming at him that something was wrong. It reminded him of the fury he'd heard in his rival's voice, the darkness swirling in his emerald eyes. It spoke in showers of blue glass, reminding him what he had done. He had only turned Harry against him once again now; back to the drawing board now that he'd nearly murdered the redhead.  
  
And yet, gods, that ass.  
  
He could not escape it now, of course. Gay or not - he'd said it in a rush, really, ready to excuse his identity crisis on something seemingly out of his control - he could not deny it now. He wanted Harry. He wanted to take him, to take his body, to take control of everything.  
  
Even, perhaps, the enmity that so conspicuously separated them.  
  
His thoughts ended at this. This new desire - this new need to get Potter instead of get back at him - left him lost. He was brilliant at coming up with schemes to torture the Golden Boy, not plans to tame him. He was a fucking genius at pushing his buttons - but only all the wrong ones.  
  
He had never had to seduce anyone before. Back in his second year, the only person he'd had any interest in was Pansy, feeling that she was an irritating duty he would need to accept. She'd thrown herself at him, of course, but that had all gone wrong. He'd ended up liking her too much.  
  
And if there had ever been anyone but Pansy, he had always assumed that all it would take would be a vague gesture toward his bed, and they would jump right in. Generally, this had always been true, at least within the Slytherin House.  
  
And now, this. The only thing he could think to comfort himself was the fact that he had always been fond of a challenge. He could regain a bit of his trust, perhaps, get him to down some Firewhiskey. He could cast a memory charm on him when he woke up next to him, in this very bed.  
  
Draco frowned suddenly at the idea, blinking at the silvery material that surrounded his face. It would be getting what he wanted, wouldn't it? He loved to get what he wanted. Getting what he wanted did not put a sinking feeling in his stomach, an odd sting in his heart, as this did.  
  
He knew what he was afraid to admit, even to himself. He did not want just that. He wanted more, and no amount of potions and confounding charms, no sum of the strongest Firewhiskey, could make the raven-haired boy, currently furious with him, care.  
  
He wanted him to wake up here, next to him, and then stay.  
  
Slowly, a very dull feeling drifted over Draco, a shallow coldness that numbed him, slowed the beating of his heart and stilled his thoughts. It was a wrenching, miserable feeling, but luckily, he was used to feeling hopelessness.  
  
He sat up slowly, carefully lifting the cloak from his shoulders. He draped it over his arm and jumped from the bed, landing on the floor with a soft thud. As if in a slight trance, he walked over to his black leather armchair, setting the cloak back down with the rest of Potter's clothes. From here, he looked up into his fireplace, lighting it instantly with a flick of his wand.  
  
The sensible thing to do would be to forget that it had ever happened, that _any _of this had ever happened. After all, he'd made it five full years without love, hadn't he? He had smirked all the while, been comfortable, perhaps some shadow of happy. He could easily go on.  
  
But, of course, like his company and his rival, Draco had never really been fond of sensibility.  
  
Perhaps he could ask Pansy for advice. She was always meddling in his life the way it was, always asking stupid and annoying questions - he could probably make her week with this. Make her feel special. Maybe she could think of some kind of .. plan.  
  
His mind froze for a second, remembering something. He frowned, recalling then the last plan that Pansy had come up with - the one that had humiliated him and nearly gotten him arrested for showing cruelty to a domesticated magical creature.  
  
The letter. He had it, now. Finally, after all that hell, he could read the goddamn thing!  
  
Feeling foolish for having forgotten it in the first place, Draco slipped his hand into his pocket, grasping the crumpled, now slightly damp piece of parchment. He withdrew it, unfolding it with almost violent passion.  
  
His eyes piercing, he read it slowly, his expression darkening as it went on. At last, he read the final line, sneering at it and then at his crumpling the letter into a tight ball in his hand. With a low growl, he tossed it into the fire.  
  
He had expected Pansy to set up a meeting with Potter. That much, at least, had been obvious. But the final line, the one that foretold how the other would not have need of his clothing once he gave them back to him - what the hell was that?! It was a glaring sexual innuendo, making it seem like he ...  
  
Oh, he would kill her. He would _murder _her in fresh, warm blood - that is, if the insufferable woman even bled like the rest of humanity.  
  
His stomach was churning wildly with nervousness, his palms sweating. Did Potter think that he _wanted_ him, now? Perhaps that was why he'd been so eager to believe it was him in the shower - who would both want to see me naked and kill my best mate? Oh, that's right, it makes perfect sense! _Malfoy_!  
  
Perhaps that had been the reason why he was so angry. Not so much because he'd nearly killed the Weasel, but because he was disgusted with him for being gay, for wanting to do things with him. Not that he wanted to do things with the raven-haired boy - well, not that he would ever admit that he wanted it! It was supposed to be all one big bloody secret, and now, it was ruined.  
  
Potter knew, and he probably hated him even more for it.  
  
Draco turned his head violently from the crackling fire, his silver-blonde hair shifting around his pale face. He would kill her. He would kill her _now_.  
  
Storming toward the door, he scowled, ready now for his dinner. Behind him, the letter lay burning, reduced now to an innocent pile of ash.  
  
==================================================================  
  
Why, Panse. What a delightful ensemble you're wearing this evening.  
  
Pansy paused a moment in chewing her pasta, swallowing it quickly as her pale lips twisted up into a smirk. She recognized that cold, sardonic voice all too well. But what had made him so late for dinner?  
  
You're tardy, darling, she teased, not bothering to turn around and look at him. She could sense his presence, feel him standing behind her, above her, his shadow darkening her meager, half-eaten plate. What kept you?  
  
I was doing a bit of light _reading_, the voice sneered, cold now as ice. He spoke the last word slowly, dragging it out in sharp syllables. Pansy's smirk fell slightly.  
  
Really? How odd of you, she answered casually. Her heart beat faster than normal, however, her mind racing - it was impossible, really. Potter had the letter, it was safe in his forbidden little pants. There was no way in hell that Draco had managed to get his sneaky fingers on it; not after the fiasco of this morning.  
  
I just _love_ your outfit.  
  
All right, that was it, he was surely up to something! Pansy spun around, facing him at last, her lips slipping into a full pout.  
  
Thank you! she snapped, frowning suspiciously. He only grinned down at her, his eyes trailing over her tight-fitting white silk top, glaringly visible beneath her open Slytherin robe. His gaze lingered also on the white pants that she, being Pansy, had declared the only thing that could possibly match.  
  
Draco hummed, delaying any further conversation as he continued to stare steadily down at her body, his eyes narrow slits now, furious dark grey. He rhythmically swayed his glass of wine (acquired upon a quick visit to the kitchen) as he struggled to control his fury. He pondered how lovely her outfit would be if soaked completely in her devious blood.  
  
I know you want something from me, Pansy spoke warningly, her expression hardening now, her eyes firm.  
  
Draco hissed, letting the word slip fluidly off his tongue. I do want something with you. You see, this afternoon, I stumbled upon something I've been _dying _to read for, let's see .. a few days now ..  
  
You didn't. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her face incredulous.  
  
Oh, but I did. I absolutely _did._ Did you honestly think you could win one over on me, Panse?  
  
But Potter, she began, stuttering with shock. The blonde above her easily interrupted her protest, finishing her sentence for her.  
  
Left it lying carelessly around, Draco nearly purred, cocking one eyebrow suggestively, a dare to top this newest feat of luck.  
  
she winced, paling a bit. If he had indeed read the letter, there would be no more benefit of the doubt for her. She could see clearly in his dark, furious eyes that his previous suspicion had long been forged into burning anger.  
  
Do you have anything to say for your sorry arse before I sculpt your face to match it, Pansy? he spat, letting the cold, calm mask of his face shatter, his wrath at last visible in his expression. She stared up at him blankly in response, her eyes wide, her lips still. The blonde twitched with impatience.  
  
he hissed, still swaying his wine glass unknowingly.  
  
A brief pause, and then, suddenly, her lips curved back up into their familiar all-knowing, devious smirk.  
  
Are you going to meet him, then? she whispered, her eyes flashing.  
  
Draco stared down at her for a moment, seething. His grip on the wine glass tightened, his knuckles white, blood flowing instead to his strained face. He felt the cords of restraint snap within his mind, his anger swell up beyond their bounds.  
  
That's it! he raged, lifting his wine glass high into the air. You are .. so .. unbelievably .. _infuriating! Damn_ you, Panse!  
  
In an instant the glass had been overturned, and the red wine spilt over Pansy's snowy white outfit in a small waterfall, soaking into it effortlessly. She shrieked, jumping up from the bench and spinning around to face the friend most dear to her.  
  
Are _you _are a stubborn pig that doesn't know fate when it shoves itself right beneath your stuck-up nose! she shouted, glaring at him. You'll be kissing my arse for having done it one day!  
  
The day I thank you for one of your pathetic schemes is the day I rot in hell, Parkinson! Draco retaliated. You made it seem like I .. like I ..  
  
Like you what? Panse asked darkly, her voice dropping to a whisper.  
  
Draco swallowed, suddenly aware of his surroundings. Most of the Slytherin table was staring at the two of them, eavesdropping, waiting for the fight to escalate. An argument so violent as this was actually quite rare between the Ice King as his only female friend, and as such it was drawing a large amount of attention. Even students from the other houses had turned to watch, their forks suspended in the air.  
  
Quietly, so as not to have anyone overhear, he leaned toward Pansy and answered.  
  
You made it seem like I wanted to _fuck _him! he seethed, hissing the words out sharply between his teeth. What the fuck is he going to think of me now, Panse? He's going to think I'm fucking gay! He already loathes me enough without that!  
  
I doubt he is so shallow, she whispered back, her voice calmer now. And besides, darling. Don't you?  
  
Don't I what? Draco repeated, frowning severely.  
  
Want him after all? she smiled, giggling lightly beneath her gentle voice.  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed, his face cracking as rage again flooded it, sharpening his already prominent features, darkening it terribly. His restraint had snapped once again.  
  
Listen to me _very _carefully, Panse, he growled, his hands curling into fists. I DON'T WANT TO FUCK ANYONE!  
  
He screamed these last words, throwing his hands into the air threateningly. Panse opened her mouth, ready to cleverly retaliate, but then suddenly snapped it shut, paling. She lifted her hand, pointing weakly over his shoulder.  
  
I did not wish to know either way, Mr. Malfoy, a dark, cold voice spoke from behind him. Draco froze, nearly swallowing his tongue as he turned slowly around, his face pale once again.  
  
Evening, Professor, he spoke in his familiar drawl, confident and emotionless. He let his fists uncurl, his palms sticky now with nervous sweat.  
  
This has become the second scene you have created thus far today, Snape spoke calmly, his voice almost bored were it not for the sharp pang of disapproval twisted into it. Perhaps you should stay clear of the Great Hall indefinitely. Despite circumstances I cannot allow even you to embarrass me so shamelessly. Thirty points from Slytherin, and the next time, Mr. Malfoy, there will be a series of detentions in addition.  
  
Yes _sir_, Draco answered darkly, nodding in icy recognition.  
  
Clean yourself up, Miss Parkinson, Snape sneered, glaring at her wine-stained outfit with distaste before turning on his hell, his robes billowing behind him as he walked grimly back to the staff table. A dull silence had fallen over the Great Hall, all eyes, with perfect certainty, now on him.  
  
For all your charms, darling, you really lack subtlety, Pansy whispered at last, drawing her wand from her pocket. In a flick and a murmur her clothes were as good as new, snowy white once again.  
  
Just shut it, Panse, Draco growled, sullen now more than angered. He took a seat at the Slytherin table, glaring dangerously at the students surrounding him as if daring them to say a single word. No one did, and he grabbed a roll rather miserably. He felt he no longer had the energy to murder his friend, who had returned almost cheerfully to her plate of pasta.  
  
He looked up, locking his eyes with the Gryffindor table. He was staring at him, his dark emerald eyes sending an intense shiver down his spine even from so far away. He had been watching everything, as everyone else had, but when they had all gone back to their dinners his head alone remained erect, staring out over the distance that separated them. His stare was dark, filled with rage and hate.  
  
He knew too much, and there wasn't a damn thing Draco could do to repair it all.  
  
He took a bite of his roll, sighing crossly. He had forgotten now how it had even began; how the hell was he supposed to predict the ending? As far as he could tell he had made everything worse. Potter hated him more personally now, his anger deeper and more strongly fueled. He had made a fool of himself in front of the entire damn school, attacking an owl. His sexuality had gone to hell, certainly.  
  
And yet, he felt indifferent to the idea of change. It would end as it was fated to end, most likely in flames. Like everything else in his life, the things planned by others were the things that lasted. His own defiant efforts at pleasure, at happiness, simply died, snuffed out quickly and shoved into the darkness of the past.  
  
He looked up again, trying to meet his eyes. He had returned to his dinner by now, however, probably coerced by his two friends. He raised the fork to his lips, chewed, swallowed, staring down into his plate with lost eyes.  
  
Draco took a bite of his roll, feeling a certain warmth spark briefly within him. He wondered, suddenly, what the other boy was eating, what he was thinking, what he felt at that instant in time.  
  
How unfair it was that he was destined never to know.  
  
=============================================================  
  
** Super Fun Review-Answering Hour! =D  
**  
**Ms. Rose**: And now it is time to honour our beloved reviewers by answering their reviews! I wish I could do this for everybody, but there are too many for me .. and you two, I guess .. you're always so busy together ..  
  
**Draco**: Beloved reviewers my fucking arse! I refuse to participate in this charade of faux gratitude. I'll just answer everything with Go to Hell, slave of perversion! That's the most they deserve!  
  
**Harry**: I don't really think you have much of a choice in this.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Answer, or no showers. Forever.  
  
**Draco**: That's .. that's disgusting! I could never be .. be .. unclean! You repulse me, you sick-minded excuse for a writer, you demented female, spreading the sickness that is this foul genre of atrocious-  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Annnd our first review is from ... **Kuraii Koneko**! We love KK, he's reviewed many times in the past. =kiss kiss=  
  
_ Heh, nice try Draco. I shall not call you 'Lord Malfoy'. And besides, you know you /WOULD/ much rather take Harry when sober. Admit it, you would. We can all tell, this chapter was proof enough of that.  
  
Harry? You aren't a whore, but if Draco refuses to have fun with you tonight? Just make him drunk again, he KNOWS that he wants you. There was MUCH proof of that during this chapter, so you shouldn't feel guilty in any way for making him drunk. He wants you but is just to proud to admit it... -  
  
Ms. Rose? You are the /BEST/ authoress that I have ever encountered. I really enjoy everything about your story, especially this chapter, the kissing chapter, and the little talks at the end. I can't wait for the next chapter!!  
_  
**Draco**: Bastard. First of all, you'll call me whatever the hell I like, you slave of perversion, and secondly YES, he is most definitely a whore. A delusional, sick-minded little love puppy.  
  
**Harry**: Oh, right then. I'm suddenly the one. You want to see denial of reality? Let's talk about your virginity.  
  
**Draco**: It is perfectly intact, I'll have you know. I'm not like _you_ when it comes to .. well .. everyone ..  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Eh heh .. well, moving on. Much love to KK! There _will_ be more physical exploration in future chapters, you can count on it .. =rubs hands together greedily= ... mmm. Thank you for your compliment! Our next review was submitted by **Brenna8**!  
  
_ Dear Lord Ferret Draco Malfoy:  
  
This letter is to inform you that your usual wit and sarcasm at the end of the chapter was sub-par. Please consider this notice that further failure to entertain the "fan-girls" will result in the revoking of shagging rights to one Harry Potter and all Arbor Mist confiscated.  
  
The Rabid Association of Worldwide Fangirls, thanks you for you time and attention to being a "bad boy" and your devotion to hair care products. Keep up the good work!  
  
On a further note, while you may be on probation with RAWF, you are not under any warnings with its sister organization HOWL (Horny Organization of Worldwide Fangirls).  
  
Thank you for your time and attention to this matter. We look forward to your improvements, as RAWF only caters to the finest.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Brenna Starr  
Chief Barker for RAWF, Member of the First Order of HOWL, Star Spritzer of Airfresh  
__  
_**Draco**: Ehrm .. this organization isn't real, is it? I mean .. horny fangirls .. bleeding fuck, I'm locking the doors tonight.  
  
**Harry**: They can't be so bad if they appreciate your hair, though.  
  
**Draco**: Mmm. True.  
  
**Harry**: I wonder ... do you think I could join HOWL? I mean .. if they genuinely have some sort of control over you, I think I'd like to ..  
  
**Draco**: WHAT?!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: I want to join as well. I fit both organizations. =grin= I'm rabid enough, wouldn't you all say? But at last, our final review .. one left by **Borne-Shadow-Child**!  
  
_ Lord Malfoy,  
  
It seems that it has escaped your attention that you are a slave. your owner, ms. rose has focused my attention to that.therefore, my company shall be forwarding some items for your restraint and punishable offences.all the finest leather of course..you are a malfoy after all. my sister would also like to thank harry for broadcasting the arbor mist incident over the internet. the puddle of drool was quite impressive for my sister, who usually prides herself in control. however, the dark angel and his demon prince are too big of an allurment for control to remain substantial.  
  
have fun!!  
  
m.reaper  
co-executive of funtime's magical kinky objects  
42 preston lane  
ottery st. catchpole  
england  
europe  
the left hemisphere  
the earth  
milky way galaxy  
_  
**Draco**: I don't want any of your kinky magical leather shit! Just .. back off! And take your bloody sister with you!  
  
**Harry**: I like this guy. Or girl, really .. hmm .. I should visit there ..  
  
**Draco**: Do it and die.  
  
**Ms. Rose:** I delighted in this review because I'm pretty sure BSC is from England! It makes me feel all floaty to think that English people read my work. I mean, me, in little Wisconsin .. I just ADORE English people. Love the sexy accent.  
  
**Draco:** Is that a real address? I'd love to hunt him down and shove his kinky magical crap up his unfortunate-  
  
**Ms. Rose:** Is it?! Oh, oh, write back and tell me! If it is, I'll write you a letter! I have no idea where Ottery St. Catchpole is but - well! And anyway, thanks for your amusing review. Much love! =kiss!= And much love to everyone else who reviews and reads! All three of us love you!  
  
**Draco:** =gives middle finger=  
  
**Harry:** =waves goodbye idly while pondering the uses of kinky leather objects=  
  
**Ms. Rose:** Tah-tah! Please come back for future reading! =muah!= 


	20. Typical Monday Morning

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: This is a bit of a filler chapter until the next chapter (which is better) but it has two pretty important things addressed within it. The first is something absent from my story forever and the second is a plot twist I'd sort of forgotten (along with the other two or three or whatever plot twists I still have to cover, which I will eventually). Enjoy!  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and **_current sexual content_** (**_SOME NOW_**). Well, kinda. Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions perm-  
  
**Draco**: WHAT THE HELL?! Something's wrong with the warning thing! HARRY!  
  
**Harry**: Huh, that's interesting. I wonder how much ground covers.  
  
**Draco**: I did NOT authorize this! Rose, change this back - NOW! Immediately!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Sorry, Drake. I had to cave into the pressure. Everyone was saying, where is the slash, where is the smut? So I gave them a little snack until the plot actually gets there.  
  
**Harry**: I rather like this new fan service thing, in that case ...  
  
**Draco**: Shut up and help me fix this. Where the fuck is the deleting button?!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: So anyway, readers, if you don't like a little bit of naughtiness I would choose to avoid the first chuck of this chapter. Skip to the stars, you know, if you're still suckling your virginity. Trust me, it will NOT screw the plot up much for you. The rest is peachy. Actually, the part to avoid isn't bad at all, only PG-13, but I thought I'd warn you all anyway.  
  
**Draco**: SO SKIP TO THE STARS, YOU SICK PERVERTS! SKIP EVERYTHING!  
  
**Harry**: Or print it out and go to your bedrooms ..  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Monday morning _in the story.  
  
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His breathing was shallow as he slept, his face serene beneath the cloak of darkness that surrounded him. He was buried in black silk bedsheets, and even the dim light from the dying embers of his fireplace was blocked out by his drawn bedcurtains. From the calm, black void, a hand ventured forward.  
  
It shook his shoulder gently, first once, then a second time, a bit harder.  
  
its voice called, a whisper in the dead quiet of his private chamber. It was strangely warm, laced with a fondness the sleeping blonde had never before heard directed his way. Draco, wake up. Open your eyes, won't you?  
  
The blonde mumbled incoherently in his sleep, turning over onto his other side and grunting with irritation. Still, the voice called out, distant and so, so familiar to him.  
  
Come on, Draco, wake up. A third shake of his shoulder.  
  
Get .. lost, he mumbled in response, curling deeper into his warm cocoon of silk. Fuck .. off .. too dark, not .. mmmorning ..  
  
But Draco, it's _me_. Harry.  
  
The hand reached out again, this time wrapping gently around his shoulder, pulling it down so that he rolled over, landing with a gentle groan on his back. He blinked, opening his silver eyes to the darkness above him.  
  
The first thing he noticed was the light shining from his left. It stung his eyes, and he whimpered, closing them tightly again and cursing.  
  
Oh, sorry. A whisper, and then Draco sensed that the light had gone. He reopened his eyes hesitantly; the light was much dimmer now, a ball of energy sourced from the tip of a wand, hovering in thin air several feet above his bed.  
  
Draco glared at it suspiciously, though he, for some reason, felt no sense of fear whatsoever. The fear he had always associated with Potter's wand had faded, oddly absent.  
  
Take off your cloak, coward, he muttered, his mind still murky with sleep. He heard a chuckle, light but distinct, and a moment later Potter's face and upper body appeared, the darkness peeling off him easily. He was grinning, his face flushed as though he had headed at an eager run to be there, standing contentedly on the top of his little set of stairs.  
  
he spoke, running a hand back through his unruly black hair casually, as if he were meeting a friend in the middle of the corridor before the start of a class, anywhere else with anyone but the blonde.  
  
Draco winced, taken aback. Had the raven-haired boy not been grinning so genuinely, he might have screamed, lunged for his wand, and demand he explain himself immediately - but as it was, he could not summon in himself the need to feel threatened. It quite simply would not come.  
  
You don't look very happy to see me, Harry said teasingly, and Draco recoiled at the sight of the other boy pouting slightly, his eyes bright. He inwardly gasped; he would never do something so ridiculous as _pouting _in front of him!  
  
There was no way any true Harry could be this goddamn cute.  
  
Who are you? Draco sneered, raising his blankets protectively over his bare chest; he slept every night in his black silk boxers. What do you want? What are you doing here? I'll kill you if you come any closer to me, my wand is right-  
  
It's _me,_ Harry reassured, smiling and, to Draco's complete horror, leaning forward over the bed. You're such a moron when you're half asleep, you know that?  
  
Draco frowned, deciding for the moment to dismiss that last comment. He cocked his head, raising one eyebrow suspiciously and trying his best to look intense.  
  
Even if you _are _Potter, he began, and really, that fact had become impossible to dispute; in addition to having the same tanned skin, the same messy black hair, he also had the same spark of life in his emerald eyes. That still doesn't explain what you're doing in _my _bedchamber.  
  
Idiot, what else would I be doing here? Harry answered serenely, not phased for a moment by Draco's jumpy suspicion. The blonde watched with wide eyes as he, still smiling, stepped off the little set of stairs, kneeling onto the bed near its inhabitant's thigh.  
  
Get off my bed, Draco said shakily, but it was useless; his voice came out as nothing more than a soft whisper, a final, desperate attempt to cling to the rules of his outside persona. Harry only cocked his head dismissively, crawling forward. In one swift movement, he lunged for Draco's shoulders, pushing them back down onto the bed, holding them there with his weight.  
  
His silver eyes widened, for suddenly he was looking up into a twin set of brilliant, emerald green, alive with a sense of playfulness, with eagerness, eyes devoid at last of any anger or bitterness, of any hate at all. Harry was smiling, amused.  
  
he asked, leaning down; only inches remained between their eyes. You're looking at me so strangely. Did you miss me?  
  
I always miss you, Draco answered softly, his voice numb. He could say anything at all, as this could not possibly be real.  
  
Are you sure you miss _me_, Harry asked teasingly, leaning down an inch more; a lock of his thick black hair touched his pale forehead. Or maybe .. this?  
  
Harry bent down, pressing his warm lips firmly into those of the boy beneath him, moving them slowly as if to draw him in, to capture his deepest attention. Draco froze at first, his heart pounding, but then began to gingerly respond, tasting the moist softness of his lips, sheerly enjoying the pleasure of something so simple and yet so entirely, entirely complete.  
  
And as he kissed back, after he had at last gained the confidence to match the pace of the boy above him, Harry parted his lips, licking those of Draco lightly, begging entrance. He was swift to comply, and then, suddenly, he was tasting him completely, drowning in the wet heat of his mouth, his tongue mingling with his rival's own.  
  
It was Harry that pulled away first, still grinning the same grin, eager and unfading. Draco lay panting lightly beneath him, his eyes wide with disbelief, his pale face flushed pink. The boy above him laughed down at him, as if surprised.  
  
You _did _miss me, he spoke warmly, and then he leaned down to kiss Draco again and the other boy was lost, lost in the pleasure of moving his lips in unison to his, lost in the way he lifted his chin unknowingly to press his mouth up harder, signifying his need for more, for more and more and more than he had ever before dared to want.  
  
Harry pulled away again, and Draco whimpered in protest, though it ended up being rather unnecessary. Instead of commenting, the raven-haired boy immediately leaned back down, burying his face into the blonde's shoulder and fervently kissing his neck. He alternated between pressing his lips into his throat and biting at the tender flesh, his teeth leaving swollen red marks on the otherwise flawless white skin. Draco shut his eyes, forcing his head back down into the pillow, restraining whimpers until finally, at last, he let forth a desperate moan.  
  
Taking this as encouragement, Harry abandoned his neck with one final lovebite, moving his lips down to the blonde's collarbone. He kissed it lightly, and with each new kiss moved further down his body. He bit Draco's nipple hard when he reached it, earning a sharp cry of surprise, and raised his hand then to stroke the opposite side of his chest, his hand sliding from his ribcage to the inward curve of his slender waist.  
  
His kisses led him to Draco's navel, which he licked playfully, finally slowing his progress. Below lay the sparse line of silver hair that disappeared under the waistband of the blonde's straining black silk boxers. He lifted his head, repositioning himself above this area before smiling at his lover, his green eyes flashing sinfully.  
  
Satisfied yet, love? he spoke gracefully, sliding his fingers teasingly under the waistband. Draco winced, looking up at him with narrowed silver eyes, eyes lost now in the darkness of lust, coherent thought long gone from them. His erection throbbed just beneath that thin layer of black silk, completely obvious to the raven-haired boy above him.  
  
It's okay, Harry whispered, his fingers sliding under the silky fabric. Draco hissed, his hips almost thrusting upward at the sensation of fingertips sliding across him softly, teasing him. I'll make you forget your loneliness, Draco ..  
  
_Draco_ ..  
  
Draaaco ...  
  
Draaaco! Wake the hell up, breakfast is almost over!  
  
The voice rang shrilly through the damp air of his chamber, connecting with the blonde's ear in a dream-killing collision and jarring the boy rudely from his rather pleasurable rest. He grunted, sneering as he awoke, still curled safely in his black silk sheets.  
  
I'm up already, fucking hell, he mumbled to himself, burying his head crossly back into his pillow. It was then he noticed the obvious; his erection, aching for attention between his legs. He groaned, cringing as details of the dream suddenly flooded his consciousness, overtaking him and lulling him back into the better world of fantasy.  
  
DRACO! Hurry up, we have Potions this morning and if Snape kills you, it isn't any fault of mine!  
  
Fuck off Blaise, I'm awake! Draco shouted back angrily, growling into his pillow. Then, suddenly, he felt immensely terrible; he had just had a dream about Potter. A twisted, impossible, hot incredible torturous dream about his worst rival .. about his worst rival doing the most amazing .. and now he had woken up with a hard-on.  
  
It had been so good, but now, in the glaring light of morning, it left him with little more than a sick feeling in his stomach. It was something that could, naturally, never be his.  
  
And besides, he _knew_, rolling his eyes, that Potter would never smile that way for anyone. He was too caught up in himself for that, too unnervingly innocent to pick up on the clichéd art of getting someone else off.  
  
Well, you've only got fifteen minutes to get-  
  
BACK OFF! he screamed, throwing his bedcovers off himself and jumping gracefully onto the floor, his bare feet making a loud smack as though to prove his point. He cursed under his breath, making his way sorely toward the shower.  
  
Just trying to help you out. See you there, huh?  
  
Yeah, yeah sure, Draco mumbled, sending a dark glare toward his door, behind which he knew stood Blaise, dressed mussily in his school robes, his books under arm, breakfast digesting in his stomach.  
  
He made his way into his bathroom then, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He peeled off his black silk boxers, throwing them carelessly onto the floor before walking into the glass-incased room, setting the water to the temperature he liked best: steaming, nearly burning hot.  
  
He stepped into the stream, sighing before wrapping his fingers around himself, closing his eyes and cocking his head back. He tried his best, then, to remember everything.  
  
==== = = =====================================  
  
Harry tapped his quill mindlessly into his parchment, leaving an odd blob made up of tiny black dots on the mostly blank piece of writing material. He'd scribbled down a few of the facts he thought he would need to know, of course (though Snape rarely tested them on any facts that were obviously important) but had given up, deciding that the grim Professor's blasé voice was too difficult to follow.  
  
He glanced to his right. Ron sat there next to him, his head propped up weakly on his hand, his eyes glazed over with either lack of interest or utter confusion, he could not tell which. Beyond him sat Hermione, writing down every other word Snape spat from his mouth diligently, her handwriting straight and neat, her eyes alert.  
  
He glanced to his left, over toward the Slytherin section of the dungeon. He found Pansy, her long hair spilling down her back, her gaudy quill twitching as she took notes. Blaise was next to her, sketching something onto his parchment. Snape droned on and on, unfazed, and everyone responded in their own typical way. Everyone, absolutely everyone, was acting completely normal. No one noticed the fact that was screaming at him, even from tens of feet away.  
  
Next to Pansy, a seat was conspicuously empty, ominous and cold even without its owner present. Harry could not remember a single time, throughout all five years and then some, that Malfoy had actually missed a Potions lecture.  
  
He had, at first, rather happily entertained thoughts of some misfortune plaguing the blonde. He imagined him waking up in the morning only to be covered by some kind of terrible rash acquired from a Herbology class gone wrong, fancied that Mme Pomprey would find it unfortunately incurable. He thought that perhaps he'd fallen off his ridiculous floating black bed and lay there on the cold floor, a huge lump on his forehead, mumbling about wanting to cuddle a hippogriff. He smirked at the thought of him being abducted by Crabbe and Goyle, both disgruntled that he'd ditched them that year for his two new choices.  
  
These thoughts brought him joy for no more than four and a half minutes.  
  
As the class wore on, he began to wonder instead of fantasize. Where _was_ the bastard, and why weren't his two friends even the least bit concerned? He knew that if he ever chose to miss a class, Hermione, with Ron tagging along at her side, would personally hunt him down and drag him there. But there they were, quiet and behaving as expected.  
  
From there, the wonder slowly turned into vague worry. He liked the idea of the blonde being held up by something ridiculous, but the thought of him actually being in harm's way, injured or gravely ill, made his stomach twist and turn, its contents turning cold and sour. The worry eventually led back to the wonder: where the hell _was _he?  
  
Thirteen minutes had passed, then seventeen, then twenty-one and twenty-two and thirty six, and what if he'd gone and fainted in the hallway from a fever? He was _always _pale, and living in the dank, dreary dungeons couldn't do much for one's health. He wished someone would find him, pick him up and stop at the Potions classroom to announce his being found before carrying him on up to the hospital wing.  
  
Damn Malfoy. Even when absent, he still irritated him to the core.  
  
Thirty-eight minutes? He tapped his quill faster now - where - _tap tap taptaptap - was _that moron? He was doing this just to piss him off. He knew that Harry wanted to murder him, so he skipped Potions just to aggravate him more, to delay his appearance until tonight so that the raven-haired boy would have to wait, fuming and annoyed, without anything to glare at, thus unable to release any of that anger.  
  
He had been late for forty-two minutes when he finally walked in.  
  
He opened the door calmly, slowly, unlike the bursting-in of someone that would have been in a hurry. The class turned their heads toward him as the door creaked open, and he glared at them dully, stepping inside without a word.  
  
Snape, who had been outlining the importance of an adrenaline potion when used in training dangerous magical creatures, turning around sharply, his black eyes narrowed. He said nothing for a moment, his lips pursed as he stared at Malfoy, who stood unmoving at the top of the classroom, his expression blank.  
  
How nice of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy, he spoke, his voice laced with distaste. It was obvious that he had no desire to hand his favorite pupil that familiar line, and was doing so only because it was unavoidable. Dare I ask what you were doing that delayed you so unfortunately?  
  
I was _busy_, he hissed boldly, his expression finally shifting to reveal a single emotion: fury. He jerked his head then, locking his flaming silver eyes with those of Harry, who recoiled slightly, sneering a bit back at him. Malfoy continued to glare him daggers, unrelenting, eying him with anger for which the other boy could, for once, not find a root. Staring at him with hate was reserved for once the blonde was settled comfortably in his seat, and even then, it had never been so strangely intense.  
  
Harry stiffened, his own anger answering back in his expression. All thoughts of worry vanished, replaced almost immediately by his more common ponderings of revenge.  
  
Have a seat, Snape drawled at last, ignoring the silent exchange. And speak with me after class. Five points from Slytherin. Your attention back to the board! Adrenaline potions take advantage of apparently already inherent ..  
  
Malfoy took his seat crossly, sneering at Pansy as he sat down, who was smiling at him with knowing eyes. She appeared to laugh as she turned back to her notes, and Malfoy, already incredibly infuriated, yanked a scroll of parchment out from his bag, sprawling it on his desk and then grabbing a quill, wetting it and scribbling something quickly onto the paper. Harry would have turned away then, relatively satisfied, had the other boy not suddenly ripped the parchment apart, isolating the rectangle of it containing his short message.  
  
He folded it angrily, reducing the rectangle into one three times less its original size. He grasped it in his hand, waiting until Snape turned his face to the board, at which point he spun around and threw the folded note nastily up to Harry.  
  
It bounced on his desk neatly. Harry looked to his left, his right, confirming that no one had noticed before quickly opening it, bending his head over the smeared ink with a ready sneer. The message within, unfortunately, made no sense to him.  
  
_Thanks a lot, Potter.  
  
_He could imagine him speaking it, hear in his mind the venom his voice would contain. The question here was - what the _hell_? He had done _nothing _to the blonde recently.  
  
He turned the paper over, grabbing his own quill. His lips twisted down into a horrible scowl, and he scribbled an answer.  
  
_What the fuck, Malfoy? I've barely so much as looked at you this morning! Enjoy your forty minutes off? What'd you do, find a nice closet and jack off?  
  
_He crumpled the note into a ball, too furious to be so neat as to fold. He threw it back at the blonde, cursing when it bounced off the back of Pansy's head instead.  
  
In her desk, Pansy grinned, snatching the ball of parchment from the floor near her ankle. She began to open it, her face lit up like a naughty child on Christmas receiving the present she knew she didn't deserve, though Draco quickly snatched it from her.  
  
the blonde hissed, bearing his white teeth. Pansy pouted for a second, then frowned, her face disappointed but not surprised.  
  
He opened the note, reading it first once, then a second time, his face paling. It took him at least three minutes to answer, finally ripping off a new square of parchment. He wrote his answer, folding it and tossing it back toward the Gryffindor. He caught it easily, expecting it this time.  
  
_I can think of better things I would have liked to do with the time.  
  
_Harry frowned, trying to decide whether or not it was worth replying. He'd been hoping for something more like a clear verbal attack, not this neutral, annoyingly vague reply. He realized then how much he loathed vague answers, and quickly raised his quill. He wrote a reply, crumpling the note and throwing it back. This time it landed nicely near Draco's hand.  
  
The blonde opened it, almost laughing at the lack of wit the answer contained.  
  
_Yeah well, fuck you Malfoy. You always think you're above the rules, don't you? Twelve minutes earlier and you might've gotten off with every single one of your House points intact. Egocentric, pigheaded ferret. Go fuck yourself!  
  
_The blonde sighed as he wrote his final reply, tossing it back halfheartedly.  
  
Harry picked up the note eagerly, opening it as quickly as his fingers would allow. Somehow, he loved this new game. Writing off the prat was nearly as satisfying as telling him off, and the delay between shots heightened the anticipation, his anger boiling to its highest point before he was finally able to revel in a response.  
  
_Thank you for the request, but I'm fine, thank you. It saddens me that a relatively intelligent person such as yourself can't find the thought to write anything more complex than your own unrestrained thoughts, direct from your stubborn mind. Pathetic virgin.  
  
_He frowned at the answer, crumpling the note a final time and shoving it unhappily into his pocket, feeling cheated somehow. He shot Malfoy a dark glare only to find that the blonde had already given up, copying notes now, his expression erased blank once again.  
  
Distraction gone, Harry's thoughts heaved back to the final reply, thinking it over furiously in his mind. Damn the blonde and his fucking eloquence! He hadn't even insulted him in the note, and yet it had managed to piss him entirely. Relatively intelligent wasn't a label that could make his blood boil; it was the condescending way it was worded that got to him. He was so distant, so calm, so completely bloody annoying!  
  
And those final words, that last conspicuous insult - he had called him pathetic, yes, that made sense to him. But a pathetic ... virgin?  
  
Harry's mind seethed. What right did he have to mock his sex life (or more accurately, his lack of one?). Malfoy himself was probably a whore, doing any girl that threw herself on his black silk doorstep. Maybe Pansy, even. The ungodly Millicent.  
  
Yes. At least he wasn't a slut like Malfoy. Having a wasted first kiss that had led to absolutely nothing was entirely more fulfilling than the blonde's situation: giving away a crapload of kisses that led to .. well, everything.  
  
He frowned. He was thinking it without hesitation, but a small part of his mind, a calmer part, doubted the claim. _Was _Malfoy indeed a whore? Could a sexual glutton be so infuriatingly clever with retorts? Some part of him thought whores weren't smart enough for that.  
  
Malfoy hadn't even swore. He _always _swore at him.  
  
That was a strange fact. But back to the mental battle - yes, Harry decided. It was respectable to be a virgin, it was almost noble, like a sacrifice made despite never having the option to not make it. It was moral, and certainly, one of the greatest things he could hold over the blonde were his morals. He doubted that Malfoy had very many, and knew that if he did, they were probably twisted.  
  
Yes. Being a virgin was a decent thing. Malfoy was pathetic himself for mocking it. At least he knew now for certain that the blonde was not a virgin himself. Granted, he had never before wondered, but still, it was a new fact to retain. He had never wondered about it before. He had never cared to wonder.  
  
And he still didn't care, of course. The icy feeling gripping his stomach was little more than disgust at having to imagine Malfoy _doing _things with other people, the anger flaring in his heart nothing more than old anger, old hate.  
  
_Other _people?  
  
... forty minutes to brew. Assemble your cauldrons; all needed ingredients are in the cabinet. You may now begin.  
  
Harry's head snapped up, and he blinked, his thoughts vanishing. Ron tapped him on the shoulder, turning to him with a frown on his face (he hated this part, this actual application of knowledge) and speaking.  
  
Should we use your cauldron, mate? Mine is, ehrm, a bit more worn out, and ..  
  
Oh, sure Ron, he answered automatically. He stood shakily, feeling a bit lightheaded. I'll go get the ingredients, then.  
  
the redhead answered vaguely, staring down at the open book in front of him. Harry turned away from him in time to see Hermione walk good-naturedly up to Neville, who smiled shyly, and as he turned toward the direction of the cabinet toward which everyone was heading, he caught sight of another.  
  
Malfoy was stalking away from Pansy, people sidestepping to make way for him; the foul look on his face was intimidating to say the least, his dark eyes and almost predatory warning glare evidence of his terrible mood. He met Harry's eyes for a moment, frowned, and then promptly looked away.  
  
The raven-haired boy did not dare to glare at him for the rest of the class; no, not even that; he could not summon the strength to do so. Instead he worked mercilessly on his adrenaline draught, confusing Ron terribly as he rushed through preparing the ingredients, slicing through roots and fresh herbs like a slightly insane tepanyaki chef, his eyes clouded over with anger and glued on his work.  
  
He was first to finish, a full two and a half minutes before Malfoy.  
  
Ten minutes later and five minutes to the end of class, Snape began his traditional round, inspecting everyone's potion for defects and handing out the appropriate (and sometimes disproportionate) marks.  
  
Harry scowled when Malfoy's mark was announced, an expected Excellent consistency, Mr. Malfoy, and its perfect score. Hermione and Neville received a sneer and a nod (passing), as did the majority of the other students, especially those who happened to be Slytherin. Par usual, Snape made his way to Harry's table last, his grin expression alive with a twitch of anticipation.  
  
He peered down gravely into the cauldron, his eyebrows raising slightly in a jerk of shock. It was a deep, nearly black navy blue, thick and bubbling vigorously. He stared down into it for a long moment, sneering before looking up.  
  
A miraculous improvement, Potter, he spoke, disgruntled. One point for Gryffindor.  
  
Harry grinned as the Professor stalked back to his desk, adverting his eyes to those of Malfoy, whom he was sure would be staring in utter disbelief. Instead, he seemed busy, packing his books before everyone else, a frown still locked on his face.  
  
His smile faltering, Harry looked away, somehow ashamed.  
  
Two minutes later a crowd of students was rushing for the doors of the dungeon classroom, bookbags and black-cloaked bodies bumping into each other rudely on the way out.  
  
That was incredible, Harry, Hermione commented warmly as they filtered out into the damp hallway, a smile on her face. You studied all the potions in the chapter we were going over, didn't you? It must have been perfect for Snape to have to resort to passing you.  
  
I did some work, Harry answered lowly in response. Hermione nodded, taking that as agreement, and then turned to Ron.  
  
Did you and Harry study together, Ronald? she asked, her smile still set in place.  
  
the redhead stuttered, frowning. In truth, seeing Harry pass a potion had been as shocking for him as it had been for Snape. Ehrm, that is. Yeah, Harry and I sometimes study together. Don't we, mate?  
  
Sure, Ron, Harry answered amiably. He smiled down at Hermione, who was still grinning as though she herself had pulled off an academic miracle. He was still looking at her when that same grin suddenly dropped from her face, shifting quickly into a dark frown.  
  
He looked up. Standing there in the corridor and blocking their way was Malfoy, his hands buried in his black pockets and his silver eyes adverted. He glanced toward him as the trio stopped, eying Harry intently. Pansy, next to him, smiled brightly.  
  
What do you want, ferret? Harry spat out, his elation at having passed something in Potions fading as his old anger swelled, overtaking him. For their parts, Hermione stiffened, her brown eyes narrowing impolitely, and Ron clenched his fists, a foaming dog on a chain ready to sick.  
  
Malfoy glared at him for a second, his lips pursed tightly, and did not speak. A few long seconds later, Pansy elbowed him suddenly just behind his forearm, and he sneered, at last opening his mouth.  
  
I just wanted to congratulate you on your little triumph, Potter, he blurted out, his hands still hidden. I mean .. damn it. I mean, fuck, nice job, Potter. Nice fucking job. I guess you could be salvaged after all.  
  
Harry stared at him, his scowl dropping into an odd sort of confused frown. He would have been very quick to take it as nothing more than a sardonic insult had the blonde not sounded so strangely .. nervous. His voice had been hesitant and rushed, as though spitting it out had been exceeding difficult for him. It left him slightly stunned, and as such, he took a longer time to reply.  
  
Don't mock me, he hissed at last, his emerald eyes flashing. Malfoy stared back at him unblinkingly, his expression blank. His eyes were not surprised, not sparked into fury as Harry was so accustomed. He just stood there, staring.  
  
he spat at last, turning. Pansy smirked at his rival, her eyes glimmering as she looked him up and down curiously before turning to stalk away with her friend.  
  
What a bloody asshole, Harry muttered as the pair walked off, his scowl deepening at the thought of the fight. Nice fucking job, he'd said. His passing grade had probably, he thought, just completely ravaged the blonde's morning. That, of course, and the five points.  
  
Hermione spoke up hesitantly a moment later. He grunted to signify his attention. I hate Malfoy as much as you do, but there was something very wrong with that. I don't think he was insulting you.  
  
He was just being witty, Herm, the raven-haired boy hissed. He said it purposely so that it could be taken either way. It's just what he does. Goddamn annoying is what it is ..  
  
Yeah, Mione, when he said nice job he really meant, ahh, Ron began, pausing to think for a second. Really terrible, crappy job.  
  
Hermione spoke, her voice almost a sigh. She said nothing more, watching as, many feet ahead of them, Malfoy and Pansy disappeared around a corner.  
  
Up ahead, first said person was cursing under his breath, walking exceedingly fast to get away from the person he knew was following behind him.  
  
Why the fuck did I _say _that? he swore, muttering to himself loudly.  
  
Because you mumbled Nice job, Potter' under your breath after class and I overheard you, then kindly suggested you pass that on to him yourself, Pansy answered contentedly, unbuttoning the first two buttons of her white shirt.  
  
Kindly suggested my arse, Draco answered furiously, turning his head to glare murderously upon her smiling face. You _threatened _to tell him what I'd said if I didn't do it myself. Not one to have you fucking around in my life, I was forced to agree.  
  
I personally think it went very well, she answered cheerfully. Draco sighed, ready to strangle her but finding himself too angry with Potter at the moment to go through with it.  
  
Stubborn, furious, assuming Potter. Well, fuck him. Fuck him and his ability to twist compliments into death threats. Draco was sick of being treated as though he were the same boy he'd been a week ago, the same boy he'd been for the past five years and more.  
  
Fuck him for being sensible for once when it ended up only infuriating him.  
  
It went pathetically unwell, the blonde sneered. He didn't listen to a fucking word I said, Panse. I said nice job and he heard, Nice job _sucking as usual you pathetic failure of a Gryffindor,' _ I mean, bleeding hell! It's a worthless effort.  
  
I think you confused him a little, Pansy offered consolingly.  
  
I think I just complimented a fucking _wall_, Draco snapped back, unable to be comforted. I can't believe I would entertain even for a _moment _the thought of going along with you. I even crossed my fucking fingers, as you so _kindly _suggested.  
  
He withdraw his hands from his pockets, revealing indeed just that.  
  
Maybe you're jinxed around Potter, Pansy laughed, smiling.  
  
Don't be a moron, Panse, Draco muttered darkly. It's not a curse. It's inertia.Harry, what are you doing? Hermione asked suddenly, frowning as she turned away from her plate to gaze at him, concern etched into her face. He stopped for a moment, his hand frozen in midair, then brought it down suddenly, slamming his knife with such force through his chicken breast that it screeched as it scraped the metal plate, leaving a thin scratch.  
  
Pretending this chicken is Draco, he snarled. Ron, on the other side of him, piped up, his head cocking to the side with confusion.  
  
You mean Malfoy, mate? he asked. The raven-haired boy nodded darkly, stabbing his food a second time; a piece of chicken flew near the bowl of biscuits.  
  
You're acting like a child, _Harry_, the girl near him whispered, emphasizing his name as though it were a word key to returning him to his old self. We all loathe Malfoy for what he's done to us over the years. I hate him for what he nearly did to Ron, you know that, but all of today you've been so .. completely not yourself. You fume, Harry, you don't tear apart inadement objects at dinner.  
  
It's true, Ron agreed immediately. He had been pale all through dinner, always up for verbally murdering Malfoy but very uncomfortable with the idea of wielding a knife in the name of their hate for him. He's ignoring us now. He's really been ignoring us all day, so you should .. try to calm down.  
  
Harry stabbed the knife into the chicken, looking up across the Great Hall. He wanted their words to not be true; he wanted to look up and see Malfoy glaring back at him, a threat, a waiting attack.  
  
Instead, the blonde was calmly eating what looked to be some kind of green vegetable, his eyes downcast, his lips parted slightly, his face devoid of emotion.  
  
Harry dropped the knife quietly to the table, picking up a fork instead. Without answering his friends, he began to slowly eat his mashed potatoes, unaware that although Malfoy's eyes had not answered back, another's had.  
  
Pansy smirked as she lifted a sprig of steaming broccoli to her lips.  
  
Look at Potter, she said loudly, completely aware that Draco was in no way listening to her words, let alone obeying them. He's been like that all day. Edgy, violent. Stabbing cooked pieces of already dead things. It's funny, Drake.  
  
Why is it funny, Panse? he answered in a monotone, chewing slowly afterwards.  
  
she smiled. He's acting just like you usually do.  
  
Draco stopped in chewing his food, swallowing the pulp of it suddenly as he jerked his head toward his friend, his eyes dark and narrowed.  
  
I don't find that amusing at all, Panse, he frowned, an undertone of warning in his voice.  
  
Oh, but I do, she continued, intrigued now that she had figured it all out. It's obvious why, you know. You've reversed the roles, Drake. You've finally managed to change the rules of the game in your own favor.  
  
You're not making any sense, Draco hissed. It was obvious in his voice what he was not saying - _fuck you, Panse, shut the hell up_ - but she went on, ignoring it expertly.  
  
It had always been you torturing him, you making the first move. He had always been the one who wanted little more than to be left alone, but now, _now _he wants the attention, he wants the fight, and you're denying him it. You're eating your dinner quietly, playing the victim.  
  
I'm not _playing _anything, Draco snapped, raising his voice. I'm just fucking sick of it, all right? I'm just fucking tired! Can't you for once leave it be?  
  
Don't you get it, Drake? Pansy answered excitedly, turning toward him. Potter can't do it forever, it's not in his nature to be the predator. He's going to give it up eventually, and then there will no longer be set roles for your rivalry! No expectations! With that freedom, he might be a little less assuming. He might be more willing to -   
  
I said _leave it be!_ Draco shouted suddenly, interrupting her. Her mouth hung open slightly before she closed it, her eyes wide and knowing. She knew it would not be left unfinished.  
  
Draco sneered down at her for a moment before returning to his food, stabbing his piece of vegetable rudely with his fork. He was tired of thinking about it, tired of hearing about it from her. Did she not realize that some things were beyond analysis?  
  
You were so quiet today, Pansy whispered, turning back to her own food sullenly. You can't deny it any longer. It's out of your control now, isn't it? It's no wonder you want to abandon it. You hate not being able to dictate yourself.  
  
Draco opened his mouth immediately, ready to retort, but stopped as he watched Pansy return submissively to her plate, not saying another word on the subject.  
  
Ahh .. Draco? You guys done? a voice spoke quietly from one seat behind the girl. The blonde blinked, feeling hollow once again.  
  
Yes Blaise, he growled. His friend leaned forward, putting himself in full view had Draco bothered to turn his head and glance at him. He pointed up hesitantly into the Great Hall, toward its wide windows.  
  
I think an owl is heading your way, Blaise grinned shyly. The blonde's head jerked up at this, and he turned to stare in the direction of his finger. There, indeed, flying past the window now and toward him, was his mother's owl.  
  
he spoke aloud, raising an eyebrow, confused.  
  
He came this morning, but you'd missed breakfast, Blaise explained lightly, reaching for a fresh roll.  
  
Draco grunted, his lips pursing into a thin line. Letters from his mother were generally unnerving things, cheerful and supportive with an underlying theme of threat intended to instill motivation. The gods knew what she had to say about the fucking _Prophet; _she had most likely been too ashamed to write a letter in response to that alone.  
  
He hoped, vaguely, that she had replied with an entirely sensible explanation in response to his question. Feigning interest, he raised his forearm, waiting as she dove toward him.  
  
===============================================================  
  
**Draco**: Good evening, Ms. Rose. I've prepared this cup of hot, steaming, genuine coffee for you. Relax and consume every drop.  
  
**Harry**: He ground it himself, you know. =cough=  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Ahh .. thank you, pookie, but I don't drink coffee. I loathe the stuff.  
  
**Draco**: FINE! Hold on a second. =dumps in some milk= Okay here, now it's a fucking latté, DRINK IT all ready!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Ahh .. well .. thank you ..  
  
**Harry**: =snort=  
  
**Draco**: =rubs hands together greedily=  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Uhm .. err .. =peers down into cup= .. Drake, this isn't coffee. It's hot water with a ton of black and green ground-up floating crap in it.  
  
**Harry**: Apple seeds, to be exact.  
  
**Draco**: FUCKING HELL! TRAITOR! I THOUGHT WE WERE IN THIS TOGETHER! .... I mean what the hell, no, it's coffee. I think it's getting kinda cold maybe you should just DRINK IT really quickly now ..  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Apple seeds contain cyanide, don't they?  
  
**Harry**: Desperate men do desperate things.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: You're just angry about the dream scene. =ruffles blond hair= Poor widdle Dwakey-Wakey-poo, did it make you blush?  
  
**Draco**: Your demise is on the horizon, bitch. I do not give up so easily.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Really, now. What's next? Arsenic donuts for our dear readers?  
  
**Draco**: Of course not. Potter, we don't need to take this shit, let's go.  
  
**Harry**: Go where?  
  
**Draco**: We have some grocery shopping to do.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Don't forget the Extra-Virgin Olive Oil ...  
  
**Harry**: Thanks, but our bottle is only half-  
  
**Draco**: COME ALONG, POTTER! 


	21. Truth Be Told

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: I'm excited for the upcoming chapters .. they're fun. Well, if not fun, then at least progressive .. entertaining .. more fast-paced than the others before them. I hate proofreading now, as I want to just go on and write the next chapter instead. I do hope you enjoy my (edited) current chapter, however .. thank you very much for liking my story. - If you do, anyway.  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Monday evening _in the story.  
  
=============================================================  
  
Draco untied the rectangle of fine parchment from the leg of his mother's owl, rubbing his fingers against it delicately, enjoying the feel of paper that was smooth as silk. Bast hooted at him in annoyance, and he fed her a morsel of meat before dismissing her with a wave of his pale hand. With quiet eyes, he watched her fly off toward the windows, a frown on his face as he turned back to the letter.  
  
He opened it carefully, glancing around to check for overseers before settling down to read it.  
  
_My dearest Son,  
  
I was surprised to see you had owled me only in regards to the breach of your door. In light of recent events, I had been awaiting a letter from you inquiring of our suit with the Daily Prophet and, more specifically, Ms. Skeeter. I assure you, I have hired the finest lawyers available, however, they have warned me that our case may not be taken with the grave seriousness I have attached to it. They seem to think that with the imprisonment of your father, a raunchy, shameless article can hardly tarnish our reputation further.  
  
But do not fret, my boy. They will pay for this attack on our name.  
  
In response to your question, there is only one exception to the rule of the door. The only way a person could enter through it rightfully without possessing pure Malfoy blood is if their blood has been blessed into our name through the ritual of bonding. When I married your father, I gained entrance through the doors, as I'm sure you realize. Thus, the only explanation I can offer you is that this person somehow disabled the nearly ancient magic cast on the door, a feat that I assure you could not have been done without great power. I'm certain that by now you have secured your chamber by casting various alternate wards, however, you must also take additional precaution. Burn any letters that may contain information that is not to be known. Keep no dangerous trinkets.  
  
I wish there were more I could do to assist you in this, truly, I do. Look into who may have entered your room, Draco. Perhaps it will not be safe to continue sending you to this school after all.  
  
With affection, your Mother  
Narcissa Malfoy  
  
_Draco folded the letter back up with steady hands, feeling deeply numb. The thought of no longer returning to Hogwarts sent an icy chill through his blood, indeed, through his heart, but he could not imagine his mother going through with it. He could not imagine failing to graduate.  
  
His fingers curled into fists as his breathing deepened. He dared not imagine a life lacking Hogwarts, as he could all too easily imagine his future without it. He felt the black robe scratch against his shoulders then, saw its hood drape over his eyes; he felt the searing pain of his forearm, felt death call to him from within.  
  
He shivered. It could not end that way.  
  
He needed a distraction suddenly, and thus immediately looked up, glancing across the Great Hall. Sitting there, glaring furiously at him, was Potter. Simple, predictable Potter, his emerald eyes burning with anger, with hate, but not truly. It was not the kind of hate that consumed you, ate you out from the inside. Hate was present there, yes, and it had possessed him (Potter would never loathe him any less, this was now obvious to him) but it was not a danger to his soul. He would hate him and yet still go on to save the world, to be pure and goodhearted. He was a virgin, he was loyal, and therefore he could hate without consequence.  
  
Draco wondered, vaguely, if Potter was going to show tonight.  
  
But of course he was. That was obvious as well; Potter was proud, and he would not back down from such a challenge. He would not been seen as a coward, not, at least, a coward in connection to himself. He would come.  
  
Draco sighed. He needed to relax. He continued to stare out at Harry, his eyes narrowing with exhaustion as the raven-haired boy continued to glare back at him with fresh passion, most likely thinking the blonde was planning his next attack on him. He needed to relax, he needed to think of simple things.  
  
He had kissed him, once, hadn't he? The thought seemed distant all ready, buried deep in his mind as though it had taken place years ago. He tried his best to recall it, to summon the feeling again of his lips, full and warm, his tan skin smelling of human and cinnamon and almond, his own pale hands in his thick, dark hair. He had been damp and warm, his cheeks flushed, his breathing lush; he had been so very, very real.  
  
And his eyes had been distant, lost, blank. Even now, he did not remember.  
  
Draco sighed a second time, the joy of the memory drained. He wanted his early morning fantasy, wanted Potter's eyes to see him like that, like something worth wanting and, more than that, worth taking. No, no, not taking - keeping. Draco wanted to be worth keeping.  
  
So, what did your mother say? Pansy asked suddenly, leaning toward him. The blonde started, turning to her violently.  
  
What I expected her to say, he sneered. The long-haired girl shrugged, her lips quirking up for a second as she returned to her food, unfazed. He was fond of Pansy, wasn't he? Simple, self-serving Pansy, never troubled, never sorrowful, rarely anything more than confident and devious, always so sure she would have what she pleased.  
  
Draco picked up his fork idly, twisting it in his fingers. Could one say he was fond of Potter? He felt calm, yes, in his presence, more daring somehow, but also entirely more on edge, more vulnerable. He did not know what he felt, only what he wanted.  
  
He wanted, simply, to be wanted in return, and for that to be enough.  
  
_Yes_, he thought calmly, slicing his fork into a piece of potato, _Potter would show_. And maybe, perhaps, he would end up showing Potter.  
  
=============================================================  
  
Hermione looked up from her book suddenly, disturbed by the sound of a cloak ruffling, the springs of a chair creaking slightly. She watched as Harry stood, lifting his bookbag along with him.  
  
Going to bed all ready, mate? Ron said first, having noticed as well. Harry turned his emerald eyes to him briefly, his expression emotionless, and shrugged.  
  
I'm off to the kitchens, actually, he said carelessly, rolling the strap of his bookbag onto his shoulder.  
  
The kitchens? Hermione asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. But Harry, it's nearly nine o'clock, you may not make it back before curfew.  
  
the raven-haired boy hummed dismissively. I'll be fine. I'm just, well. Very hungry for something at the moment.  
  
Bring me back a piece of that dark chocolate cake, huh? Ron asked, clearly not the least bit concerned. He was playing wizard's chess with Neville and was rather delighted, as he was winning.  
  
Sure Ron, Harry said quickly. Well, see you guys later.  
  
He made his way toward the portrait hole, his gait faster than usual and heavier as well, as if he were angry somehow. Hermione watched him go suspiciously, her book momentarily forgotten. Something was not quite right.  
  
She watched intently as he disappeared through the hole, and frowned as she returned, oddly distracted now, to her text.  
  
Otherwise unnoticed, Harry slipped easily out of the common room. He did not need to meet Malfoy until ten, yes, but he had a slight errand he needed to tend to beforehand. He began to quietly make his way down the corridor, heading with a determined mind toward the dungeons.  
  
========================================================  
  
Draco arrived at the closet ridiculously early, there both for the sake of being there long before Potter showed and for the cause of escaping his bedchamber, which Pansy had chosen to invade shortly after dinner.  
  
You were in a rush this morning, and you didn't dress as nicely as you could've, she whined from his bed. She sat there cross-legged, an annoying excitement in her eyes as she stared at him where he was seated in front of the fire, catching up on homework to ease the future from his mind.  
  
He had sneered at her, not bothering to respond. As far as he was concerned, the black turtleneck sweater and fine black slacks he'd put on hurriedly after his shower were more than enough for Potter's eyes.  
  
Don't you look at me that way, Pansy said warningly, pointing her finger rudely at him. I'm just trying to help you. Don't you want to look sexy for Potter?  
  
Don't you have some random manwhore to be shagging right now? Draco hissed. I'm trying to fucking study. I don't have time to argue about my choice of clothing with you.  
  
Who said we were going to argue? she smirked suggestively. As Draco turned back to his Potions textbook with a scowl, she reached carefully for the black book that lay, unguarded, on his nightstand.  
  
Forty minutes and much screaming later, Draco walked into the hidden room of the broomcloset wearing a grey v-necked sweater, which Pansy had claimed was soft as bunny-wabbit fur, and a pair of slim-fitting black trousers. She'd shrieked when she'd seen him after begrudgingly changing into the outfit she'd forcefully laid out on the bed for him, declaring that in a different world, she would have jumped him.  
  
Draco, for his part, knew that Potter would be too pissed off at him to so much as notice his clothes, let alone stroke the material of his sweater. He settled into the black leather sofa, stretching his arms over the top of it and resting his head back, letting his silver eyes stare up at the ceiling. He found, predictably, that he was not comfortable in the least.  
  
An unmistakable feeling of dread had settled into his stomach, warning him of what was to come. He knew, somehow, that the arrival of his rival would not bring good things. He was angrier at him now than he had ever been, and that was truly saying something. Potter was not happy with him, not at all.  
  
Draco hoped, vaguely, that he would not need to fight him. He could not bear the thought of touching him now, of ripping away at his clothes and body with malice as his only intention. He did not think it was possible now, not after this morning's .  
  
Potter was not going to make this easy for him.  
  
He closed his eyes at last, sighing deeply. Let this, somehow, he thought, come to an end he could survive through. Just let it finally reach a climax.  
  
He dug his fingernails into the leather, hoping that Harry would be late.  
  
=========================================================  
  
He arrived at the broomcloset a full seven minutes early, his hand restlessly fingering the vial in his pocket, an intense frown on his face. He knew (though how exactly he knew, he couldn't explain) that Malfoy was there early, lounging beyond the door in front of him, waiting for him to arrive. He slipped his hand out of his pocket, curling it into a fist; even his body was itching for a fight.  
  
He was eager to pull a trick that even _he_, cunning and devious as he was, wouldn't expect. He was ready for his own sweet taste of revenge, and eager, after all that had taken place, for much more than that. He was ready to see what had been in the blonde's head all along.  
  
He was ready to find out why he'd called the unofficial truce, why he'd bothered to tutor him at all. He was ready to find out why they'd been meeting in this secret room, what he'd been looking for in his dormitory that day, if he had indeed intended to hurt Ron. He was ready to find out, to summarize it all, what the hell had _really_ been going on.  
  
He tapped his wand on the closet door, opening it fluidly.  
  
He had been right. Sitting there, his arms spread lazily across the top of the sofa, was Draco Malfoy. His head was resting against the very top of it, his silky white-blonde hair spilling around his face. His eyes shot open suddenly as Harry let the door drift closed.  
  
he sneered, eying him intently. Harry smirked, slipping his hands back into his pockets.  
  
he greeted confidently, his emerald eyes flashing with malicious intent. I knew you would be here before me.  
  
There was a short pause before the blonde responded.  
  
It was intentional, he said at last, his sneer fading into a deep frown. He lifted his head, sitting up further so that he could view his rival more effectively. A shiver had run down his spine at those words; no, not the words, but the tone in which they were spoken. It had been almost ... _seductive_.  
  
Draco's frown deepened further. He was planning something. His voice was entirely too calm, too amiable.  
  
Harry answered, his eyes locked with silver. He began walking toward the sofa, dropping his bookbag carelessly on the floor as he went.  
  
What are you doing? Draco asked suspiciously as he neared him, abandoning his lazy position in favor of sitting up rigidly, his eyes alert. Harry, still staring at him, raised an eyebrow, his smirk firmly in place.  
  
Coming to sit next to you, he said at last, easily, casually, much too casually. Draco grimaced, sliding himself a few inches away from the raven-haired boy as he sat down comfortably only a foot or so away from him.  
  
What the fuck, Potter, he hissed, his voice a tight whisper in the dead quiet of the small room. Harry turned to him blankly, innocently, his smirk still locked, his emerald eyes eager.  
  
I came here to talk with you, he spoke serenely, narrowing his eyes.  
  
Draco recoiled slightly, seeing in the emerald depths his deep anger, the same fury he had almost expertly been hiding. The blonde cursed internally, suddenly loathing this new talent of his. He could not let him gain the upperhand. Not tonight.  
  
Then talk, he answered, forcing disgust into his voice when inside, he fighting down a thick swell of fear. Potter wanting to give him a black eye, this was familiar, this was safe, but wanting to _chat_ with him? Even _he_, wrapped up in his own emotions as he was, couldn't expect him to believe something so outrageous as that.  
  
In a moment, Harry responded quietly, still wearing the same damn smirk.  
  
Draco watched him with wide eyes, waiting for his fist to fly, for his teeth to be bared in anger. He was waiting so intently for a sudden movement that when the raven-haired boy actually did move, he started, jerked as the other boy leaned forward, resting his weight on the palm he laid in the space between them.  
  
Harry bent toward him, his eyes brilliant emerald and viciously alive, swirling with too many thoughts for Draco to separate out tangibly. The lack of space between them (a mere foot now) made him swallow, his throat parched. He remembered the dream Harry bending over his bed, smiling instead of smirking, the emotions in his eyes simple. It was so different, but he could not deny that the action itself reminded him of his fantasy.  
  
Get away from me, Draco managed in a subdued voice, recoiling slightly but not truly moving himself away. Harry merely continued to stare.  
  
Why should I? he said easily, his lips moving, though the blonde seemed to have trouble registering the words in his mind. He heard them a second after they'd been spoken, after he'd taken a moment to listen to the flow of his voice. He swallowed again, leaning back unconsciously.  
  
Harry responded by leaning forward, canceling out the action. He was still smirking. Draco was beginning, ever so slowly, to panic.  
  
Because I don't want you this fucking close to me, he growled back automatically, through he did not move. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that one of Harry's hands was still buried in his pocket, his fingers moving under the fabric of his trousers. It distracted him for a half-second, until he spoke again.  
  
I don't mind, Harry said, his voice oddly soothing. You know what, I think I'm ready to talk with you now. Are you ready as well?  
  
What the hell does that mean? Draco spat, feeling suddenly very confused.  
  
Answer me, Harry commanded quickly, impatience swirling in his eyes.  
  
he answered sharply, and all too quickly. He still had little bearing on what was actually going on, but thought he would pick it up as he went along. I think I _am _ready to talk' with you, though I don't know what the fuck you think you're going to get to me to say, after all thaaa-  
  
His voice was cut off as Harry suddenly lunged forward, digging his hands into the blonde's soft grey sweater just below his shoulders and pushing him down easily with his own weight. Draco fell back, his head banging roughly against the armrest as he landed on his back.  
  
He stared up in horror, in pure fury at the boy above him. Harry was staring down at him gravely, his eyes dark, his weight pinning him down firmly. He attempted to struggle, letting loose a chain of obscenities as he tried in vain to throw Harry off of him.  
  
the other boy spoke, an undertone of mocking in his voice. Draco seethed, staring up at him angrily, resisting the urge to spit in his face.  
  
Get the _fuck_ off me! he half-shouted, half-cried, kicking his legs wildly. It did little to help him; Harry's knees were snug against his waist, his body out of his legs' reach. What the hell are you trying to do? Get the bleeding fuck away from me, _Potter_!  
  
Harry did not respond, shifting suddenly so that instead of two hands holding down his captive's wrists, his left forearm dug into his throat. This freed his other arm, and as Draco shrugged for breath, still cursing, he quickly reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial filled with crystal clear liquid.  
  
Draco caught sight of it, his eyes widening in shock. He threw his arm savagely into the air, trying to snatch the vial from the other boy, but he easily twisted his arm away from his grasp.  
  
Before the blonde could truly comprehend what was happening, Harry had uncorked the vial with his thumb, lowering it rapidly toward the other boy. He shoved it roughly into Draco's mouth, grimacing in pain as he suddenly felt sharp, manicured nails digging into his back, dragging down it without mercy. Still, he refused to pull away, and drop by drop, the clear liquid drained away.  
  
When half of it had disappeared, Harry pulled it from Draco's lips, letting it drop carelessly to the floor. Only then did he, now satisfied, lift his forearm from the blonde's throat, releasing him.  
  
Draco stared up at him, furious, livid, before lunging himself.  
  
I'm going to _FUCKING HURT YOU, POTTER!_ he screamed, wrapping his hands tightly around his tanned neck as he threw himself forward, his sudden throw of weight toppling Harry over. The green-eyed boy gasped with both shock and lack of breath as he fell, tumbling from the sofa and onto the hard floor with a loud smack.  
  
Draco rolled on top of him immediately, the grip around his neck tightening threateningly. Harry, still struggling for breath, reaching up his hands, curling his fingers around the blonde's wrists and pulling his arms back enough for him to speak.  
  
Not .. kill me? he gasped, his voice raspy.  
  
What did you say? Draco growled above him, digging his fingernails into Harry's neck instead. He winced, his face growing rigid with the slight pain.  
  
Why .. not .. say you'll .. kill me? he managed, his lips perking up slightly despite his position, a shadow of his former smirk returning.  
  
I _will _fucking k .. k ..  
  
Draco frowned suddenly, his mouth dropping open as he realized he could not form the words. He swallowed hard, trying again, though different words tumbled from his mouth instead.  
  
I will fucking _hurt you_ .. I ..   
  
Harry, beneath him, smirked fully.  
  
It worked, he whispered maliciously, his emerald eyes flashing with the dark joy of a victory.  
  
Draco paled, his worst fear suddenly confirmed. This could not, under any circumstances, be happening. He could not have _let_ this happen. His father had trained him in how exactly_ not _to let this happen.  
  
Where the _fuck_ did you get it? Draco seethed, his fingers shaking against Harry's neck. I know you couldn't have made it yourself, you're not smart enough for that. Even_ I_ would struggle with a potion like that.  
  
I lifted it from Snape's private stash.  
  
Harry was smirking up weakly at him now, his face flushed with all the blood Draco had forced to remain trapped in it. One word ran through his head repeatedly, one perfect word that seemed to sum it all up: _fuck. Fuck, fuck, _bleeding _fuck.  
  
_Defeat overwhelming him suddenly, he loosened his hold on Harry's neck, lifting his hands away in shock. He could not have let this happen. Not .. not with _him.  
  
_ he whispered. He could not have let this happen.  
  
Harry answered smoothly. He propped himself up on his elbows, locking his eyes with Draco's silver ones, eyes that were now filled with both fury and ultimate distress, with resentment, with doubt and shame and regret, with fear and loathing.  
  
Harry's eyes were filled more simply. Triumph, anticipation, curiosity. Hate; a cruel lack of mercy; eyes devoid of sympathy.  
  
Where did you get the shirt? he asked smugly.  
  
It was a Christmas gift from Pansy, Draco answered, his voice monotone, his reply automatic. He swallowed hard, raising a hand to his throat. Awkwardly, he made to stand. Could he run from him without appearing a coward? Could he just go?  
  
He truly did hate him, didn't he? This was humiliating. He was humiliating him.  
  
Draco stood, walking to the chair. He sat down in it stiffly, steeling himself for the questions that would tear his life apart. He did not glance toward him as Harry stood himself, settling into the black leather sofa with the sound of soft crinklings. He stared out blankly into the air, at the wall opposite him. He truly hated him.  
  
Harry stared at him, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly. He still felt arrogant, victorious at having pulled the trick, and was still just as eager to go through with the questioning, but now, in the back of his mind, he felt a shadow of guilt. Draco was staring out toward the wall emotionlessly, his expression wiped blank of all feeling, even fury. He seemed a defeated man trying, with his silence, to maintain his dignity. It nearly made him feel ashamed.  
  
Nearly.  
  
I knew you would never be honest with me, Harry said suddenly, a halfhearted attempt to justify his actions. I really had no choice.  
  
The blonde blinked, still staring out, not answering.  
  
I just need to know what's been in your head, he continued, his voice reassuring, if only to himself. It's not as though it's any secret what a prick you are. Anything terrible you've been thinking won't make you look any worse than what I'm already expecting.  
  
He watched as Draco visibly stiffed at this, his shoulder blades drawing together suddenly. He turned his head then, glancing at him briefly, his silver eyes dark and narrowed. Again, he said nothing.  
  
None of what happened this week made any sense, and I just need to--  
  
Shut your _fucking _mouth, Potter, Draco sneered, his voice low and filled with darkness, with an anger Harry had never before heard emancipate from the other boy. It caught him off guard, and he listened, eyes widened slightly. Just get the fuck on with it. What do you want to know from me?  
  
The raven-haired boy paused, feeling slightly jarred. He felt suddenly unprepared for the questioning he'd been so eagerly anticipating, and frowned. He waited a moment before at last asking the question that first occurred to him.  
  
Were you trying to hurt Ron with that bottle? he asked, and for a moment the old anger flooded him, overtaking him. Draco scowled, appearing highly offended.  
  
he snapped. I just wanted to scare him the hell away.  
  
A wave of mild surprise rushed through Harry; he had been so sure that the bottle-throwing had been a mistake, that the blonde's aim had just been luckily off. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the surprise left him, his anger flowing back in its place.  
  
Harry asked viciously, sneering back at the blonde. He had just as much right to be there as anyone else. You could have just _left.  
  
_Draco argued savagely, frowning as the words spilled from his mouth. He was the one that should have _left. _He should never have come in the first place. I needed him to be gone.  
  
But why? Harry questioned immediately. Why did it matter? And why the hell were you in the shower room in the first place?  
  
Draco opened his mouth, the serum making him eager to respond, but shut it suddenly, struggling to keep it closed as he formulated a different (but just as true) response. Harry raised his eyebrow at him as he spoke.  
  
I was curious, he blurted at last, his cheeks, Harry noticed without allowing any meaning to register in his mind, flooding with slight color.  
  
Curious how? Harry asked suspiciously, a frown on his face.  
  
I just wondered who was in there, he answered, his voice dull, monotone. I thought I would play a trick on them, turn the water cold. It had to have been a Gryffindor, after all.  
  
And it was Ron and I? the raven-haired boy questioned.  
  
Draco replied, his voice quiet now, a strained whisper. He was fighting the serum, struggling for his silence, but it was useless now. I saw clothes there, on the floor. I wanted to steal money from the pockets, but then I found Pansy's letter in one of them, and I knew it was you. I knew it was you in the shower.  
  
_Pansy's _letter? Harry hissed, shocked. You mean you didn't write it?  
  
No, I did not.  
  
Why would she write me a letter like that, pretending to be you?  
  
She wanted us to meet again, Draco answered softly.  
  
Why would she care so much? Harry asked, puzzled now.  
  
She wants me to be happy, the blonde replied blankly. She didn't think I would do it on my own, that I would pursue my meetings with you.  
  
But she made it sound .. sound, Harry stuttered, gathering himself and blushing slightly before finding the courage to go on, Sound like you wanted to .. I don't know. Seduce me or something like that.  
  
She wants me to do just that, Draco's voice spoke out. He lowered his head, narrowing his eyes more out of exhaustion now than anger.  
  
Harry stared at him, speechless. It seemed insane, the entire idea of it, of he and Draco being any more than rivals on less than civil terms. Had Pansy lost her mind, wanting that, believing she could somehow trick it into happening? She had always seemed a bit odd.  
  
I guess that explains why you wanted the letter back so desperately, he said at last, begrudgingly. You didn't want me to think that you .. fancied me or anything like that. I understand that now, but where the hell did she even get the idea of you and I .. ehrm .. how the hell did she come up with that?  
  
From me, came the monotone response.  
  
Excuse me? Harry asked sharply, feeling thoroughly confused now, and also quite suspicious. Visions of Draco laughing about the idea ravaged his mind, and his hand clenched into a fist at his side.  
  
Pansy knows me better than I know myself, the blonde began slowly. And I didn't need to say much. She figured it out for herself.  
  
Figured out what? Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. He felt agitated, annoyed that he knew so little of any of this, indeed, that he had misinterpreted so much of what had happened.  
  
How attracted I am to you.  
  
===============================================================  
  
**Harry**: Oh, hey. What are you writing there?  
  
**Draco**: A letter. =scribble, scribble=  
  
**Harry**: With a crayon?  
  
**Draco**: I COULDN'T FIND ANY FUCKING QUILLS, OKAY? Goddamn authoress .. stupid .. Muggle .. fucking .. house ..  
  
**Harry**: All right, all right, _fiiine_. A letter to who?  
  
**Draco**: The Ministry of Magic. I'm reporting this kidnapping. They fucking love you. THEY WILL COME.  
  
**Harry**: I see. Brilliant plan.  
  
**Draco**: =scribble scribble= ... okay, it's done. Now, where the hell does she keep her owl? I haven't seen it .. hmm .. maybe it's away .. or maybe .. maybe she's hiding it from us .. yesss ..  
  
**Harry**: She's a Muggle, Draco. There is no owl.  
  
**Draco**: ... no owl?  
  
**Harry**: No owl.  
  
**Draco**: ... fuck! How the hell do we mail this, then?  
  
**Harry**: Well .. you put a stamp on it, and then you put it in the mailbox in her yard .. and then you lift up the little red flag thing .. and then the postman picks it up ..  
  
**Draco**: They have other Muggles deliver Muggle post?  
  
**Harry**: Yes. No owls.  
  
**Draco**: How pathetic. Give me a stamp.  
  
**Harry**: Ehrm .. I don't have any stamps ..  
**  
Draco**: Then where do we get stamps?! I NEED a freakin' stamp!  
  
**Harry**: ... well. You could ask Rose.  
  
**Draco**: Excellent plan. ROSE!!! GET OVER HERE!!!  
  
**Ms. Ros**e: You summoned me?  
  
**Draco**: Why, yes. Give us a stamp.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: A stamp? What do you need a stamp for?  
  
**Draco**: Harry wants to mail his underwear to one of the psycho fangirls.  
  
**Harry**: I ... what?  
  
**Draco**: YES, you do, HARRY. So yeah, we need a stamp.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: I don't have any stamps on me .. but I could buy one for you. Give me thirty seven cents.  
  
**Draco**: .. I don't have Muggle ! You fucking know that! Harry, give her thirty seven cents!  
  
**Harry**: I'm Muggle broke as well, you know.  
  
**Draco**: Fuck. Is thirty seven cents a lot in Muggle money?  
  
**Harry**: It's only--  
  
**Ms. Rose**: It translates into at LEAST thirty two galleons. And five knuts.  
  
**Draco**: ... I see. Where we get some fucking cents then?  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Oh .. I know! You could get a job.  
  
**Draco**: You're joking.  
**  
Ms. Rose**: Not in the least. Here, I'll make this easy for you. You're hired. By me.  
  
**Draco**: Ehrm .. fine. What do I have to do for thirty seven ?  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Hmm ... go down on Harry. Thirty seven times.  
  
**Draco**: WHAT?! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! THIS IS CLEARLY WORKPLACE SEXUAL HARASSMENT! I WOULD RATHER --  
  
**Harry**: Think about it, Draco. It could mean our freedom. YOUR freedom.  
  
**Draco**: ... _no_.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: =sigh= Fine then. No stamps for you.  
  
**Draco**: Mark my words, Rose! I'll find another way.  
  
**Harry**: We'll keep your offer in mind just in case, though.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Thanks. I'll keep my video recorder handy. 


	22. Minor Confessions

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: Editing is such work! long sigh And even after it's all done, there are always errors I have missed. Oh well. The next chapters are more exciting as far as humor, but this one is important ... I like it, really. A lot of internalization. Do you think I should become the girl of my dreams? That's an informal poll question, I just put it up here so that most people would miss it. I'm depressed all the time, so I figure, a major, drastic, irrational change can't hurt a thing ...  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Monday evening _in the story.  
  
Draco had never before been subjected to veritaserum. It was a surreal experience, one he might've compared to being extremely intoxicated and at the same time entirely unaware of that fact.  
  
Within minutes, everything around him had began to mean less and less; he no longer sensed the chair beneath him, the cracking of the fire, the rigid position of his own body. Though he glanced at Harry from time to time, he could not register the emotions he saw flashing across his face. Anger seemed no different from serenity, shock no different from calm. In fact, it meant little that it was Harry at all, Harry who was questioning him. It meant nothing that he was being questioned, as he had already forgotten what he had revealed to him. His words were present in his mind – he knew, tangibly, what had been said – but they were indistinguishable from all other words and thoughts. He had lost his logic, his rational, his ability to tell a secret from a passing remark.  
  
Harry was staring at him, and he was staring, rather dispassionately, back.  
  
He could _not_ have heard that right, the raven-haired boy thought suddenly, reclining back into the leather sofa forcefully. His muscles tensed as nervousness washed over him, his heart beginning to pump harder with a denied fear. He would clear it up now, before anything more was said.  
  
he said loudly, as if the other boy was busy somehow. The blonde's head tilted slowly toward him, his face blank, unassuming. You mean that you're drawn to me, right? You loathed me, and because you loathe me, you seek me out and try to get a rise out of me. Your hate draws you to me, _attracts _you to me.  
  
Harry finished sharply, having blurted out the sentence in a rush. Draco took a moment to respond, as if he were thinking, though in reality he certainly was not. He was merely recalling.  
  
he said matter-of-factly. That is not what I meant. That's true, what you said, but it's also obvious. We both know that; so many people know that. What Pansy discovered was that I was attracted to you, not drawn.  
  
Harry sucked in his breath, frustrated suddenly, confused.  
  
Tell me what you mean, then, he said harshly, angered as though the blonde was playing a trick on him, purposefully using a word like that, like to trip him up, to get to him. Draco continued on, sounding oddly like Hermione reciting a textbook definition.  
  
I am attracted to you, he said, his voice monotone. When I snuck into the shower and looked at you, I was mesmirized. I could not look away, because I found you alluring, sublime somehow. I wanted to reach out and touch you, but I restrained myself.  
  
You're lying, Harry hissed as soon as he finished, his hands curling into fists. Perhaps it had not been veritaserum; maybe Snape had mislabled the bottle. Maybe he had brewed it incorrectly. Maybe Draco, with his roots deep in the dark arts, with his father, knew how to resist the potion. I know you're lying, you have been, all this fucking time! Didn't you drink it?  
  
Draco blinked, his eyes glazed over. He seemed unalarmed by Harry's outbursts, his accusations.  
  
he said immediately. I drank half of the bottle. I swallowed it. He waited a moment, as if remembering what else Harry had screamed. And no. I cannot lie.  
  
Just drop it, Harry half-yelled, half-cried, his voice strained. Just drop the act. What kind of sick joke is this? This is a new low, Malfoy, saying that.  
  
There is no act, came the monotone response. His anger only flared more, surging up, overtaking him.  
  
Did you really think I would fall for something that .. that _insane_? he shouted, standing suddenly and stalking toward Draco's chair. I would never believe that, no one would! You aren't attracted to me!  
  
I am, said Draco smoothly. He seemed almost confused at the fact that he was made to repeat it, seemed to be wondering if he was not saying it in the clearest way.  
  
And so you just _watched_ me shower, Harry snapped, livid. Then, for an instant, embarrassment occurred to him; someone had seen him naked, vulnerable. It quickly became fuel for his fire.  
  
the other boy said firmly. I did. I could not look away. I wanted to touch-  
  
Just shut up! Harry interuppted, blood rushing to his face. His fingernails dug deeply into his palms, but he could not feel it. Draco made no move to continue speaking. It isn't fucking funny! You just want me to think that so you can laugh later, so that you can mock me for being so daft as to think you might .. might .. well go to hell, Malfoy! I'm not falling for it!  
  
I don't want to insult you, Draco said slowly, his silver eyes shifting toward him. I never even wanted you to know.  
  
Harry met his eyes, brilliant green meshing furiously with the calm void of silver. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, to accuse, to rant and strangle the real truth from him, but before he could, his mouth snapped shut, and he recoiled slightly.  
  
Draco continued to stare at him, his eyes boring into his own, and for a moment Harry felt, inexplicably, that perhaps he was wrong. For an instant, a shadow of the true Draco flashed in his eyes – he saw fury, humiliation, hate, loathing, pain. Without thinking about it, the thought that perhaps he was not acting, the thought that perhaps the veritaserum had indeed worked, occurred to him.  
  
Calming slightly, he decided to test him. Even Malfoy could not hold up an act like this, not when it would mean divulging secrets, personal secrets.  
  
Tell me, Malfoy, he began tensely, deeply suspicious and expecting already a hesitant response, Who was your first kiss?  
  
came the dull response, so immediate that it stunned Harry. He frowned, pursing his lips and wondering how to continue. He wasn't sure he had picked the right question to ask; he wasn't sure if this was even something he wanted to know. And yet, after a long moment, he hesitantly went on.  
  
You were dating her? he asked. He felt his chest stiffen; he had never really imagined the blonde dating anyone, and somehow, his mind stubbled over the idea, like trying to push away a bad memory.  
  
Draco answered. No, not really. I kissed her in the library, behind a shelf. I thought it was time to do it, to get used to the idea of doing that with someone like her. I will need to marry to continue the bloodline.  
  
Harry's frown deepened. He was not sure how he felt about this; it was a mix of sympathy and being stunned, and he wanted to label his reasoning as odd, as strange. What sort of person would give up their first kiss like that, when they felt nothing at all for the person?  
  
What did she do? he asked suddenly, the questions flowing from him. He wanted to know if they did anything else in the library. Draco paused, recalling the event.  
  
She laughed, he said at last, decidedly. She told me that I'd gone mad, but that she didn't mind. She thought it was funny, what I did. An ironic sort of funny.  
  
Something in Harry melted then, turned morbidly to rot. Last year, when he had kissed Cho, she had opened her eyes and looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something profound, something life-changing. He hadn't.  
  
Perhaps he and Malfoy, with their odd, unromantic kisses, had a fraction more in common than he had thought.  
  
And compulsively, Harry did not want to stop asking.  
  
Why did she think it was funny? he questioned. Draco jerked his shoulders, perhaps shrugging.  
  
I don't know, he answered honestly. Pansy is funny like that. She doesn't get herself wrapped up in things, just watches the rest of the world play out, sometimes because of the way she's meddled in it. It amused her.  
  
Harry frowned, thinking of the girl. She had always seemed a bit odd to him, odd to everyone, in fact. Hermione had mentioned noticing her staring at her once, in Potions, smirking at her when she'd announced a right answer. She had found it disturbing.  
  
Are you still .. kissing her now? Harry asked, his stomach churning. He felt unsettled, unsteady somehow. The thought of it – of Draco, cold, mocking Draco, kissing such an odd girl – left him feeling uncomfortable. It occurred to him mildly that he didn't like the idea. It seemed unnatural.  
  
Draco said, and Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief. It was a long time ago, in second year. He paused, as if deciding whether or not to add an afterthought. We were young.  
  
As much as he was resisting admitting it, Harry was nearly convinced that Draco was indeed locked under the veritaserum's influence. His tone had remained monotone throughout everything he had asked, and while he sensed that the blonde was a great actor, he doubted he was this perfect. Wanting to distract himself from what he had previously confessed, Harry went on with the questioning.  
  
Did you and Pansy ever .. ehrm, he began, blushing suddenly. It was a terrible thing to ask, really, so personal, and asking made Harry feel rather like he was spying on them instead, watching them do it as it happened. It twisted his insides, and his eyes drooped; he didn't want an affirmative answer. He wanted to know Draco as he had always known him, as the coldhearted boy who mocked him, who strived to beat him, to cheat him, to trick and torture him. He rather liked him that way, liked the tension betwened them, and he liked how that connection was inescapable. He didn't want to think of Draco as being human, as being sexual.  
  
I mean, did you ever, you know. Do things with her, he blurted. He stopped himself there, hoping that Draco, with his blank, impassive eyes, would understand what he meant.  
  
He seemed to comprehend.  
  
he said easily. Just the kiss. She had laughed, after all, and I was embarrassed. I knew she might have, if I would have asked, but I didn't. I didn't want to do it.  
  
Harry frowned. He understood, strangely, the thought of not wanting to, as he had felt that way a thousand times around Cho; but still, a sensible part of his mind reminded him of how this did not make sense. Draco was a teenage boy, and teenage boys loved to do things with teenaged girls.  
  
Why not? Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity. He couldn't let himself relate to Draco; they had to have had different reasons for their disinterest in their respective mis-loves. Just because you were embarrassed?  
  
came the answer. Draco blinked, frowning, as if suddenly realizing something.  
  
Then why? Harry asked. Of course it was because he'd been humiliated. Draco had such pride; he had probably never gotten over it.  
  
I don't much fancy women, he said, the answer flowing effortlessly from his lips.  
  
Harry stiffened, shocked and certain he had again misheard something.  
  
Despite his denial and mental restraint, the memory of Draco's words, his confession of what he'd been doing in the shower - something he'd previously considered a lie - rushed back to him. Though he remained disbelieving, it clicked in his mind. He put two and two together, ignoring the fact that the other boy in the shower was him just enough to withstand the realization, to make it all impersonal enough so as not feel involved, trapped within the impossible story.  
  
It made perfect sense, but as always, it could not be true.  
  
Then who do you fancy? he whispered. Say Pansy, he thought, say girls or anyone but Pansy, or anything, anything but what he suddenly feared the boy would say. Even would have suited him at this point, however shocking that would be.  
  
I don't know, Draco spoke, blinking his eyes slowly, the movement necessary and yet somehow unnatural, like breathing as you laid dying. His lips remained parted after he spoke, his answer unfinished for a long moment. I don't know what can fit under the word. Please define it.  
  
Harry shuddered at the polite word; the blonde never stooped so low as to utter a genuine please.  
  
Define what? he asked, his voice quiet, low and husky. This all seemed, suddenly, incredibly wrong. Guilt was beginning to leak through the defensive barriers of his mind, barriers his anger had constructed in its denial, in its selfishness. He had too much power, too much control.  
  
The word fancy, came the response. Again, Harry recoiled at the word; the idea of fancying anyone was a concept foreign to Draco's lips, to his voice.  
  
It means, Harry began ackwardly - why was he going on? - It means that you have a certain person that you're attracted to, I mean, in a romantic way. You want to do things like .. like spend time with them, and kiss them, and make them happy. You want them to be happy, and you want to be the one responsible for that. You want to care for them, to cherish them.  
  
Draco frowned, again blinking his silver eyes, blank and wide. He seemed to be shifting things through his mind, sifting through memories to try and find something that fit, that matched the offered definition. Harry was holding his breath; he could not say what he expected as a response.  
  
I have never felt those things for any one person, he said at last, turning toward Harry slowly. Not at once. But seperately, I have felt many.  
  
You need to feel them all at once, Harry said, all too quickly.  
  
Then no, Draco answered dryly.  
  
Harry paused, waiting. The question was answered, but its answer was vague, and it tempted him. He wanted to know more, know more of what Draco could and could not feel. Just how heartless, truly, was he?  
  
Explain what you have felt, he found himself saying, the words spilling from his mouth uncontrollably, a terrible waterfall of curiosity, of need and doubt and a nervous kind of hope, as if he had just bet on something dire.  
  
I am attracted to you, sexually, the blonde began, and Harry sucked his breath in, his heart suddenly pounding. He did not want to hear that now - he had not yet faced that fact, not yet registered its truth. I have wanted to spend time with you, but also with Pansy. She slinks around when everyone else stays the hell away from me, doing just what they think I want. She ignores my irrational desires, and I respect that somehow. As for kissing them, I had wanted to kiss you, and I did, and it was strong, what I felt, but it could not sate me.  
  
Shut up, Harry whispered. He was lying, now, certainly lying now. He knew, because Draco had never before kissed him. That was a lie.  
  
I do not want you to be happy, he continued, as if he had not heard. If you were truly happy, my insults could not touch you, and then our connection would be gone. You would not be nearly as interesting if you somehow became endlessly content. I do not want to cherish you; you have too much of that now, and you resent it. You resent the trade.  
  
Shut the fuck up! Harry snapped, louder now. That isn't true!  
  
I would care for you, he said at last, If it meant that you would want for me to be around, if you would appreciate it that way. I would like to be kept around for that, for attachment.  
  
You are so incredibly fucked up, ferret! Harry shouted now, livid. Draco turned to him blankly, appearing mildly interested, waiting for the outburst to end and for the questions to begin again. You think this is all funny, don't you, that this is all some huge fucking joke! It isn't! Bleeding hell, why did I believe you? Why did I think we had a truce?  
  
We did, Draco affirmed.  
  
Harry hissed. You may as well drop the act, Malfoy, I know very well that you did not kiss me. You can't trick me with something so ridiculous as that! Do you think I would forget something like that? You're pathetic!  
  
You did, the blonde began slowly. The potion made you weak, vulnerable; your senses could not handle the world around you. My touch pleasured you when it would have otherwise felt like little more than a light weight on your skin. I took advantage--  
  
I don't believe you, Harry seethed. I don't believe any of this!  
  
I know, Draco said steadily.  
  
I hate you, you know, the raven-haired boy raged on. I loathe you, I hate what you've done and I hate what you continue to do, the way you manipulate everyone around you, the way you can't seem to care. You have no sympathy, no mercy, no fucking heart.  
  
Draco stared at him blankly.  
  
I have always hated you, Harry savagedly continued. I've hated you since the day you insulted Ron's family, and I hate you now. All this time, you haven't changed. You're still the same conniving, selfish, arrogant, bitchy git that's constantly jealous of me, of the praise I receive, of my being superior at Quidditch.  
  
Draco blinkly, his lips parted, full and warm, his face pale.  
  
You find this amusing, he snapped, drawing out the words, drenching them in venom. You think it's funny that I'm a virgin, that I'm inexperienced when you're such a goddamn whore. You probably planned this in an instant. Let's see if Harry Potter, the fucking moron, would ever believe that I was attracted to him. Let's see how foolish he is, how gulliable!  
  
I have never had relations with--  
  
SHUT UP! Harry screamed. I _hate _how you find all of this fucking amusing. My emotions are not your bloody toys! I'm sick of you! I hate you!  
  
I realize that, Potter.  
  
I hope you end up just like your father, he seethed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His green eyes flashed darkly. Insane and rotting in Azkaban, his only joy in life the praise of a monster.  
  
Harry watched as Draco stiffened in his chair, his fingernails curling deeply into the leather, leaving frayed grey scratch marks. He closed his eyes and held them that way for a moment, then opened them suddenly, his lips twisted down into a horrible scowl. He turned sharply to Harry.  
  
he said slowly, deliberately. You're an ace in Potions now, aren't you? Answer this for me.  
  
The sides of Harry's mouth twitched in surprise, and his lips turned down in a confused frown, realization flooding him. He cursed internally, but it was too late even for that.  
  
he said at last, angrily but beneath that, weakly.  
  
How long does veritaserum last? Draco asked carefully, his lips twisted into a sneer. Harry swallowed hard, blinking several times. He had not thought of this. He was not prepared for this.  
  
You know what, Potter, he growled, his silver eyes glowing dangerously. I hate you too. I fucking hate you too, and I'm going to _fucking kill you_ .. right .. _fucking .. now _..  
  
Harry hadn't even the time to step back in shock before Draco lunged at him, one pale hand curling into his hair and yanking it back sharply, the other latching onto his upper arm, sharp fingernails digging into the firm muscle. The raven-haired boy hissed with pain as he was thrown back onto the sofa, pinned down by the thin boy with surprising strength.  
  
In an instant he felt Draco's fist slam into his cheek, brusing the tender flesh.  
  
Who the FUCK do you think you are, POTTER?! he screamed, bearing his white teeth in sudden flashes, his silver eyes a dark, churning grey. VERITASERUM?! FUCKING VERITASERUM?! How fucking low _are _you?!  
  
He wrapped his hands suddenly around the other boy's neck, digging his fingernails deeply into the flesh. Harry winced, struggling to breathe as he choked, unable to answer. He was not low, he was cunning; cunning like the blonde above him. Everything he had ever done to wrong him in the past now forgave his own actions; they were justified.  
  
Still, even Malfoy had never been as invasive as this. He'd never forced about something so personal, so violating - but wait, what did it matter? Malfoy had won - he had resisted the veritaserum and lied, lied _lied _through his straight, pearly teeth. He should feel no .. guilt ..  
  
Harry blinked, continuing to choke. Shadows began to cloud his vision.  
  
How could you _fucking _do this? Draco screamed down at him. His voice rang hollowly in Harry's ears, and he struggled to listen, not so much to the words but to the sound. He wondered why needed to struggle. How could you fucking do this to me, after I ... _fuck_! Are you listening to me, Potter?!  
  
Draco had noticed that Harry had closed his eyes, and he shook his hands roughly, jarring the raven-haired boy's head up and down. His eyes rolled open, green and clouded, unfocused. He blinked, opening his mouth slightly.  
  
I didn't .. mean .. he began, but Draco immediately pushed one of his thumbs down hard into his adam's apple, silencing him.  
  
he sneered above him. Now I want you to listen to me, Potter, and listen well. You _forced_ me to tell you the truth, you .. you basically _raped _my entire .. fucking .. mind .. my mind and ..  
  
His pale hands began to shake with anger, and Harry's eyes slid closed again; it made his head throb to keep them open for long, somehow. He sighed as he let his head roll to the side, his temple settling gently on Draco's trembling wrist.  
  
He breathed in, feeling a drop of hot liquid hit his cheek as the world around him went black.  
  
Draco was staring up at the stone ceiling, attempting to regain control of himself, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He was willing the burning behind them away and chanting mentally that he needed to focus on his hate when the weight in his hands suddenly increased. He hesitantly looked down, and then immediately began to panic.  
  
Harry had passed out.  
  
_What had he done? _Draco hurridly pressed his fingers to the boy's lips, sighing with utter relief when he felt warm, steady breath blow onto them. It felt as though his lungs, filled with solid cement a moment ago, were suddenly filled with life again. He had only forced him to black out, not to ...  
  
The blonde frowned, his stomach sinking. Guilt flooded him in an inescapable rush. He felt betrayal, betrayal as though all this time Harry had been his loyal friend, as though through all of this he had cared for him.  
  
Draco gingerly withdrew his hands from Harry's neck, wincing at the forming dark purple patches that were appearing where his fingers had been. He wanted to wrap those same fingers around his own neck. He deserved to be strangled.  
  
He wished, suddenly, that Harry had been the one to choke him. It always seemed that, in the end, he was alone in these situations. They always ended with him alone at the conclusion, heavy with regret and bitterness.  
  
He was breathing normally. Draco kept his fingers near his lips, feeling the warm air flow out, waiting just in case.  
  
It would be easy enough to wake him, Draco knew. He would only need to withdraw his wand and mutter a few words, but he somehow felt no desire to do so. He wanted Harry to rest, to sleep, peacefully. He wanted merely to look at him - he did not want to face the other boy now.  
  
Perhaps, he never would again.  
  
Draco shifted his hands, moving his fingers so that his thumb was near the boy's mouth instead. He stroked his cheek gently, absently. It was warm and soft, tender, and there were no piercing green eyes glaring into him. He thought distantly that this, this sudden moment of pentrating, almost painful serenity, would make a fitting end to the game. Neither would win, and they would go their seperate ways. They would not speak again, not after this night.  
  
At least, he certainly would not.  
  
Slowly, he drew his wand from his pocket, holding it out steadily just under Harry's chin. He began to mutter quietly, watching with relief as the purple drained away, leaving Harry's skin its natural color once again. He pocketed his wand when he was finished.  
  
Why couldn't Potter have brought him poison instead? That, he mused, would have been so much simpler. He would have liked to have died, to have had his whole future erased in an instant. He would have liked to never have moved on to this moment, this moment when the weight of hopelessness was crushing his ribs, by now a familiar and aching sensation.  
  
Damn Potter for not having it in him.  
  
He shifted, rolling off the boy in once smooth movement. He crawled a few feet away, turning himself around so that Harry now lay before him, his head resting just inches away from his knees. He shifted his wrist away last, letting his tremple settle gently onto the floor.  
  
Potter would probably never believe any of it. He was stubborn like that, too trusting in his own intuition, his own interpretations; he would not believe any of it. Draco would be hated and little more would come of it; he did not need to worry about the raven-haired boy before him spilling his secrets.  
  
How proud his father might have been, seeing Potter lying before him at this moment in time. He would have thought him dead, and would have smiled at him. His cold, obident son had succeeded in his ulimate mission. Draco decided, then.  
  
He would kill himself before Potter. He would point the wand at his own heart, and he would loudly say the words. Perhaps, someday, Harry would watch him do this, and then he would know that it had been true. Perhaps he would feel foolish, or guilty. Meek, trusting Potter, of course he would feel guilty.  
  
He pursed his lips, letting his thoughts go for the moment as he edged forward, lifting Harry's head up gently with two hands and letting it settle in his lap. His neck was limp, and his head rolled to its side, his cheek pressing against Draco's thigh. Looking down on it made him nearly want to smile.  
  
He found his fingers quickly buried in the unconscious boy's hair, stroking it mindlessly, combing through it in gentle, restless jerks. It was not as soft as he'd imagined it to be; it was slightly coarse and thick, but it flowed well together, redeeming itself. His own hair was softer; his own hair was like silk.  
  
His fingers continued to stroke.  
  
Hermione glanced worriedly at the clock, closing her book suddenly, unable to focus. The fire of the Gryffindor common room had long been reduced to glowing embers, the clock on the mantle reading well past eleven thirty. She had decided earlier that evening to give him until midnight before she would worry.  
  
He had twelve minutes, and she doubted that he would be returning any time soon.  
  
She hadn't wanted to step over the line and violate his privacy. Harry, she knew, was fully capable of taking care of himself as far as magic was concerned. Her main worries lay in the fact that she knew he had been tricked in the past. He was stubborn, and whatever he'd been caught up in, she knew that it was likely he wasn't looking at the situation in the most logical of ways.  
  
And she _knew_ he was caught up in something, that much was certain. At first, she and Ron had mused it was a girl - Cho even, perhaps - but that no longer made sense. It explained the nights he disappeared and came back only in the early hours of the morning, yes, but it didn't explain his mood surging out of control, his temper flaring uncontrollably.  
  
It also didn't explain why he had been running into Malfoy so much lately, why he had been slightly obsessing with making the blonde's life miserable. Harry usually didn't take the initiative; he merely responded to what Malfoy himself cooked up.  
  
Yes, she mused. Malfoy was a part of this somehow.  
  
It had started a week or so ago, hadn't it? Strange things had started happening immediately after the spawning of the article infurring that Malfoy was homosexual. She remembered keenly how furious he'd been; she recalled his paper bursting into flames, food being suddenly transfigured to ash.  
  
She remembered how little Harry had to say on the subject. Ron had seemed eager to mock Malfoy as gay - she rolled her eyes at this point, _oh, Ronald _- but Harry hadn't said a word. She had been relieved that he wasn't prejudiced, relieved that he was remaining their unbiased, accepting Harry.  
  
But hadn't he also choked on his pumpkin juice?  
  
And from that point on, he'd been acting strangely. For a few days, he'd been calmer than usual, content almost, serene, and then he'd suddenly become furious for reasons he had never quite disclosed.  
  
She remembered when Harry had been with Cho, remembered how she'd sighed over how terribly they fit. Cho had been highly emotional, which was understandable after Cedric's death, but she had made the mistake of going to Harry, of expecting him to comfort her and soothe her pain when he himself was still riddled with deep guilt over the event. She had gone to Harry, Harry who had never been in the situation of loving someone all his life, less, of course, herself and Ron. And that, naturally, was not much preparation for an grieving, tortured lover.  
  
She remembered thinking that he would be better suited to someone who was self-reliant, who could handle their own feelings well, someone who would share themself with Harry instead of throwing their pain into his hands.  
  
Harry had come back one night and told them that she had kissed him. He'd described it as wet with a bored face, and she had felt unnerved then. Harry was, of course, no ordinary boy, but he was a boy none the less, endowed just the same with high levels of testosterone. And he had looked _bored.  
  
_And now he was suddenly, mysteriously running around in the middle of the night, and during the day he was not acting like himself. He was moody, furious, distant, and somehow, she knew, Malfoy was mixed up in this.  
  
Malfoy, with his grey cashmere sweaters and silky blonde hair, was a part of this. Cold, elegant, devious Malfoy, who had always had an odd sort of obsession with driving Harry (and by association, herself and Ronald) mad. Malfoy of the article, Malfoy whose perfume she had sniffed when he had molested her, was a part of this.  
  
And Harry had looked so _bored _when he'd spoken of his first kiss. Harry and Cho, an extreme case of a typical emotional sponge, had not fit in the least. He had been bored with his first pre-sexual experience with a woman, _bored _and not eager in the least, not even nervous.  
  
And somehow ... Malfoy, heartless, seductive, excessively well-groomed _Malfoy _was involved.  
  
Hermione paled, setting her forgotten book to the side and standing suddenly. She wondered why she had never considered it before, never questioned just _why _he had seemed so bored and miserable with Cho - it made sense now, it very well did, and she resolved then that she would wait until he was ready to tell her himself. She would read books on how friends could show their support of this sort of thing, and she would perhaps find some that he might benefit from reading, she would ..  
  
But _Malfoy.  
  
_She swallowed hard. It seemed unlikely, and even though it seemed to be excessively coinsidental, it was possible that she was imagining it all. She hoped desperately that she was imagining it because, after all, being right would mean that Harry was in grave danger. If it was true, it was probably a trap - a trap that would be painful for Harry to escape from, if she knew him.  
  
She frowned, mulling this all over in her head as her legs almost unconsciously carried her up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. She found their door easily in the darkness, opening it and entering quietly, walking calmly over to Harry's bed. She smiled at Ron's snoring for a half-second as she opened his trunk, rummaging through it as she searched for what she had in mind. Within a moment, she had found it and unfolded it expectly, withdrawing her wand and lighting its tip so that she might read.  
  
I solemnly swear that I am up to no good, she whispered, tapping the blank parchment. Instantly, the weaving lines of the map appeared, and she began to search it diligently for Harry's name, browsing the library, astronomy tower and Quidditch pitch before hesitantly continuing to the lower dungeons.  
  
What she found then made her gasp. Together in an obscure room doors down from Snape's office were the names Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, nestled together tightly in floating script.  
  
She barely had time to erase and replace the map before disbelief and slight panic overcame her. She did not want it to be true, to even be possible, but it seemed that way as she rushed down the stairs, running back into the common room at top speed. They were together, late at night, in an obscure hidden room that no one would have ever thought to look.  
  
They were lovers.  
  
She threw herself back down onto the sofa, running her hands restlessly through her brown curls. It made sense, it made so much sense, but _Malfoy? _Harry was not stupid, Harry knew better; he knew what Malfoy was and what he was destined to become, and he knew what side he was on. How could he be so daft?  
  
She shifted her head into her hands, sighing loudly.  
  
Only one thing could make someone so patheticly _mornic_. Oh, yes, it was certain now.  
  
They were lovers.  
  
Draco was not sure how long he had been sitting there, his unfocused silver eyes staring down at the warm, heavy bundle that half-laid in his lap. He was watching blankly as his chest went up and down, and he felt relieved, enchanted.  
  
He shifted his fingers, feeling the dark hair slide between them. Fatigue was gaining on him, and his eyes drooped slightly, heavy, but he could not allow himself to sleep, not even for a moment. Harry could awaken and find them this way, feeling his pale hand still tangled into his messy black locks. He could not have that.  
  
Or Harry could unexpectantly die. The bruises could return.  
  
Draco blinked slowly. He wanted to sleep now, he wanted to escape. He thought, with surprising calm, how much he wanted to die in that moment. Would Potter awaken to his cold body and stroke his own hair sorrowfully, as he was?  
  
No, he would not. And he needed to sleep.  
  
He knew that he could wake him up in an instant, that much was certain. He knew the spell. The problem was that he had no desire to speak with a livid Harry, not now; he was too tired, and he had said too much. He rather liked it this way, really, not the unconsciousness but the quiet, the peace he could pretend laid between them. It reminded him of sneaking into his dormitory, of staring at his bed and wondering.  
  
He very, very much needed to sleep now.  
  
Slowly, he shifted his leaden body back, setting Harry's head gently on the floor. He was still breathing, his chest heaving gently; Draco watched it for a moment before standing and withdrawing his wand.  
  
He muttered the spell and in an instant Potter was levitating, hovering several feet above the ground. He visually checked that his head and limbs were supported before turning, making his way carefully toward one of the closed doors flanking the main room. He checked over his shoulder every few seconds, making sure that Harry was floating behind him successfully, and at last he reached the door, opening it widely as he stepped inside.  
  
The room was dark and smelled of musk, of dust and years of neglect, of thick, unreleased air. He turned up his nose at the smell of it, lighting his wand so as to get a better look around. The bright ball of light cast eerie shadows around the room, revealing grimy windows and a large bed, its velvet curtains tattered and caked with dust.  
  
Draco grimaced; it was even worse than he had thought. Still, he felt too drained to attempt any sort of cleaning spell, and the energy needed to keep Harry's body levitating was fading by the second. He frowned and walked quickly to the bed, throwing the curtains open in a cloud of dust.  
  
He coughed, sneering as he flicked his wand, floating Harry over the bed and at last releasing the spell, letting him fall gently on top of it. Another small cloud of dust errupted, and Draco, incredibly drowsy now - the after-effects of veritaserum were hardly stimulating - swore under his breath and began pointing his wand haphazardly at the bed, muttering cleansing spells.  
  
Thirty seconds later he gritted his teeth, annoyed. He had managed to clean large circular patches of the dirty sheets, leaving half of the bed still covered in a layer of dust. He had never been very skilled at those sort of mundane, housework spells. He grumbled to himself, pocketing his wand and walking around the bed, climbing onto it from the other side.  
  
He crawled his way across the dark blankets, trying his best to ignore the dust gathering on the knees of his trousers. His head was pounding now; he was dead tired, and the entirity of it felt like his first hangover, that only paired with suicidal tendencies.  
  
He reached Harry, staring down at him. He was still breathing evenly, appearing to be only in a deep sleep, his eyelashes fluttering slightly.  
  
Perhaps, by some miracle, Potter would wake up so livid that he would reach over and strangle him, smother him with a dust-covered pillow as he slept, and he would not wake up to the rejection he knew awaited him. In fact, he would not wake up at all. This fantasy comforted him slightly, enough so that his thoughts moved on. If he was to die, surely he could take one last risk?  
  
Draco smiled weakly down at him, letting his lips slip back down into neutrality almost instantly a moment later. He could die later on. For now, Potter had no idea what was happening, where he was, or what the silver-eyed boy above him was doing, thinking. He was lost in the land of dreams, and he was denied knowing of this moment. For the blonde, this made the moment safe, and he let it go on.  
  
He laid himself down next to the boy, leaving less than a foot of space between them. While Potter was lying flat on his back, Draco positioned himself on his side, facing him, his legs curled inward. He watched from inches away as his chest rose and fell. He was alive, and he would, indefinately, go on.  
  
Draco let his eyes slide closed, and the image disappeared. He wanted to fall asleep to that thought, to the thought of his living, to the thought that tomorrow morning he would still be furious, stubborn Harry - to the thought that it would go on. He wanted to know, as he slept, that he would live on.  
  
He reached out, sliding his pale hand across his chest and settling it over his heart. There was a steady beat beneath his fingers, and he sighed, coughing quietly as he breathed in dust.  
  
With no further thought, he had fallen asleep, his fingers twitching fearfully against cheap fabric and warm skin as he slept through the night.  
  
**Draco**: Are you sure this is a good idea?  
  
**Harry**: Of course it is. I mean, how else are you going to make some cents? Unless you want to ...  
  
**Draco**: Point taken, Potter! Uhh .. oh yes, you morons. We have an excellent offer for you all!  
  
**Harry**: Bloody brilliant offer ..  
  
**Draco**: You can bid on things that I have touched! Provided you never tell me what you actually .. do with them .. sick perverts .. well, moving on. The first item up for auction is this green crayon I used! I start the bidding at .. FIVE GALLEONS!  
  
**Harry**: It has to be in cents, remember?  
  
**Draco**: Right ... how many cents is that, then?  
  
**Harry**: Heh .. let's see .. three and a half.  
  
**Draco**: Fine, THIRD AND A HALF CENTS! It goes to the highest bidder! Bid ridiculously!  
  
**Harry**: Remember, he actually touched it!  
  
**Draco**: Indeed .. now .. what else can we ..  
  
**Harry**: This .. used tissue?  
  
**Draco**: YES! MY USED TISSUE! ONLY .. wait .. THIRTY THREE AND A HALF CENTS!  
  
**Harry**: That's convenient. This is pretty .. crusty .. you know .. pokes it with a pencil .. you must have sneezed pretty hard in it.  
**  
Draco**: Who said I sneezed, Potter?  
  
**Harry**: ... stare  
  
**Draco**: You're right, that definitely raises the price. THE TISSUE IS NOW ON SALE! IT IS NOW ONLY .. hmm .. SIXTY SEVEN CENTS!  
  
**Harry**: Imagine the money we could make if you used a towel.  
  
**Draco**: True .. ROSE! BRING ME A TOWEL!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: ... why? You don't look wet to me. Awe, are you guys cleaning? Here, let me take that tissue --  
  
**Draco**: NEVER! THAT TISSUE IS THE KEY TO OUR ESCAPE!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: ... oo; Okay then. drops tissue  
  
**Harry**: Maybe we should just bottle it.  
  
**Draco**: I like the way you think, Potter. ROSE! A BOTTLE, PROMPTLY!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: Sure .. that'll be ninety nine cents.  
  
**Draco**: Fuck you.  
  
**Harry**: Wait .. they could use it to impregnate themselves .. or make clones of you ..  
  
**Draco**: _Muggles_ can clone objects?!  
  
**Ms. Rose**: What the hell are you two on about?!  
  
**Harry**: Draco is selling his--  
  
**Draco**: SHUT UP! Actually, perhaps I should reconsider this .. I don't want any fangirls having my heir ..  
  
**Harry**: How disgusting.  
  
**Draco**: Indeed. I can feel the bile rising in my throat all ready.  
  
**Ms. Rose**: You're selling your .. you desperate git! Why don't you just sell one night of great sex with you?  
  
**Draco and Harry**: What?!  
  
**Draco**: FORGET IT!  
  
**Harry**: I WOULD NEVER ALLOW IT!  
  
**Draco**: .....  
  
**Harry**: Hey ... I'm on your side for once.  
  
**Draco**: Just shut up. 


	23. Nobody Messes With Her Drake

  
  
**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**  
  
Authoress Ramble: This chapter is quirky .. heh, heh. I come up with the oddest ideas sometimes .. mmm'ph ... hurray for the upcoming beginning of the end. I hope you've all been well, and thank you for reviewing. D You really do motivate me to go on!  
  
Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.  
  
Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Tuesday morning _in the story.

**** This chapter is dedicated to a sexy woman named **Juu! **  
Draw me Harry and Draco pr0no! 3

Harry stirred in his sleep, rolling over onto his side and groaning quietly with effort of this motion. His shoulder landed pressed against something firm and warm, and for a few long seconds it rested there, tolerated, until the weight shifted and moved away in a low-pitched creak of old bedsprings. His shoulder fell onto twisted sheets then, and he continued to breathe in slowly, in and out. The dust sent into the air from the shiftings settled around him in a brown-grey cloud, illuminated eerily by the murky morning light that poured in from the only window.  
  
He breathed in, his eyelids jerking at the light as dust filled his nostrils. His chest quivered suddenly, and his lips parted, his neck jolting up as suddenly, he sneezed. His green eyes shot open, wide at first but almost immediately drooping back down to a halfpoint, still heavy with sleep. He settled his head back onto the pillow, intent on returning to his previous state.  
  
Bless you, Potter.  
  
Harry's eyes shot open as though a bucket of icy water had just been poured over him, his senses immediately alert; he knew that voice. He sat up as quickly as he could, though clumsily, his body still awkward from fatigue, and when his sight caught up with his position he paled, gaping at the sight before him.  
  
Draco was lying on his side a mere three feet away from him on the bed, a bored frown playing on his lips. He was holding his head up with his hand in such a way that it tangled into his white-blonde hair, silky chunks of it falling haphazardly between his fingers as he continued to stare evenly at him, waiting.  
  
Harry blinked back sleep, struggling to understand his surroundings. His mind was hazy, but bit by bit snippets of information flooded it, slowly solving the puzzle.  
  
he blurted at last, accusingly. He raised a blonde eyebrow slightly in response, as if questioning him. Harry opened his mouth wider, but the words would not come. He blinked again, staring openly at the boy before him, disoriented and confused.  
  
Right on the mark there, the blonde impatiently snapped, his frown deepening.  
  
You .. you! Harry exclaimed, pulling himself up fully and sitting back on his haunches. He extended his hand, pointing at Draco rudely, who narrowed his eyes slightly at the finger. You .. wait, where are we?  
  
The other boy sighed, closing his eyes as he did so, as though he were suddenly very tired.  
  
The closet, he replied lazily. There's a bedroom off the main room, and though I never cared to show it to you, it was always here. I had always hated it because it's so goddamn - Merlin, Potter, put down your finger! Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look, singling me out from no one?  
  
The blonde scoffed at him, and Harry scowled, lowing his arm offhandedly. It was awkward from where he knelt, so close to him, looking down on him from so near. It reminded him of the nights he and Ron had both sat on his bed, studying or playing a game of chess or the like, and it felt entirely wrong with the blonde.  
  
Draco was reclining serenely on the bed, a bit haughtily, yes, but aside from that he seemed to have not a fear in the world. It made Harry stiffen his spine, sitting up straighter.  
  
I remember what you did to me, he spat, the final events of the night before finally coming to him. You tried to strange me to death! Is that what you're doing in here, checking to see whether or not I woke up this morning?!  
  
Draco's eyes widened slightly, and he continued to stare at Harry intently with the eyes of a person surprised with the creativity of a wrong answer.  
  
Harry growled. His anger was ebbing into him again, hot and familiar. He reached up to his neck, his fingers brushing where he knew the inevitable bruises had to be. Look at this!  
  
There's nothing there, Draco said, appearing mildly alarmed, but still eerily calm.  
  
The hell there isn't! Harry shouted, leaning toward him as he did so. The hand buried in Draco's hair shifted, the fingers twitching with slight surprise at the closed distance. Tell me what you're doing here, and why you put me here! Did you want to lock me up somewhere so that I couldn't sneak off in the night, if I woke up when you slept?  
  
Draco sneered openly at this, disgusted.  
  
I did no such thing, Potter, he seethed. I didn't lock you anywhere, the door has been open all fucking night! Try it for yourself and see, and what the hell do you mean what am I doing here? I fucking slept here!  
  
Harry froze, the words stabbing into him.  
  
You .. slept here? he choked out, staring at the tangled sheets around the blonde disbelievingly.  
  
Draco spat. I did, and if you don't want to believe it, just look at my ruddy three hundred galleon sweater. Ruined, just completely ruined. The color will never come back the same shade of grey.  
  
Harry did look, and was startled to see that the blonde's grey sweater, usually immaculate along with all the rest of the blonde, was covered with large, ground-in patches of thick brown dust. As he stared, Draco began compulsively stroking the shirt to shake off the dust, and Harry jolted, looking away.  
  
Why would you do that? he mumbled to himself, still hesitant to look up at the boy across from him who had now sat up slightly, rubbing the brown dust from his pressed black slacks. It made him seem farther away when he didn't meet his eyes, and he felt safer speaking this way, without silver slicing into him.  
  
He listened as Draco continued to brush his pants angrily, staring down at the black sheets of the bed. They were filthy, and only then did it occur to Harry how wrong it was for Draco to be there, how much he had always loathed dust and filth and how he had, for the past five years, avoided it at any cost. He remembered how once, last year, he had witnessed Pansy, snickering evilly all the while, grab a handful of ground pugil scales during Potions and throw it into his hair.  
  
He had exploded, and Snape had to confiscate his wand for the period just to ensure her survival. They had not spoken for weeks. Recalling this little incident deepened Harry's frown, and he bit his lip, now momentarily too confounded to be furious. Why had he slept near him, in this filthy bed?  
  
He took a risk and glanced at Draco, who was either ignoring him or had not heard him, as he was continuing to groom his clothes desperately.  
  
Why don't you just use a scourgifying charm on your sweater? Harry blurted, and before he could contain himself, an insult automatically flowed from his lips. You look like a helpless Muggle.  
  
This caught his attention. Draco stopped immediately and looked up at him, glaring at him murderously. Harry frowned, wanting to scowl but feeling no honest motivation, slinking his eyes away from the piercing stare as the blonde opened his mouth to speak.  
  
I have not been trained in the art of _mundane _housework spellcasting, Draco spat, his eyebrows furrowing in anger. Unlike you, I grew up in a _proper _wizarding household, complete with house elves. I was never forced to clean shit from my possessions, therefore, why the hell would I learn how?  
  
said Harry airily, who was glad to have the old Draco back again in front of him, almost glad to have dissipated the blonde that had laid beside him on the bed, confidently sprawled out as if displayed for his pleasure. I guess that explains why I'm not a spoiled prick then, doesn't it?  
  
Aren't you witty in the early morning hours, Draco snapped, having forgotten about his dirty sweater all together now. I should stop by and have a word with you at breakfast every morning. You must have the cleverest insults then.  
  
You're just as bright, I'm sure, Harry seethed. Sleeping in a bed that hasn't been touched in a decade, with dust between the sheets! I'm surprised a doxie didn't bite me in the ass while I slept!  
  
I'm shocked one didn't climb into your big bloody mouth and make a fucking nest! Draco exclaimed, his eyes darkening.  
  
Why did you sleep here, anyway? Harry growled, all shyness gone as he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the blonde. I can see you wanting me to be filthy, but why stay here yourself? There's a perfectly good couch just outside the door!  
  
I was tired and delirious, you smug asshole! Draco screamed. He sat up further and began to shift, and before Harry realized what was happening the blonde had slid from the bed and landed on his feet with a soft smack. It may have been the fucking potion I was _illegally _slipped last night! Just fuck off about it, Potter!  
  
Where are you going? Harry cried from the bed, his hands curling into fists. Draco, who had walked halfway across the bedroom in pursuit of the door, stopped suddenly and spun around to face him.  
  
I'm going to shower, he growled, staring at him. Harry blinked, staring him down in return, though no amount of his pent-up anger could match the burning lust for destruction that glowed in red hot silver before him.  
  
Harry snapped at last, unable to come up with a decent reply. The blonde scoffed, his lips twisting unpleasantly.  
  
he said back sarcastically, and then, to Harry's complete and utter horror, he slid his hands under his sweater and began to lift them, pulling the dusty cashmere over his head.  
  
The black-haired boy blinked, his eyes widening and his fists loosening as he watched, whether horrified or fascinated he could not say. He stared as inch by inch, Draco's pale, taut stomach was revealed, and then his flat chest and two small, faintly pink nipples and then the delicate but firm muscle of his upper arms, all molded together with curves nearly too sharp to be curves at all, and then .. silver burning with anger ..  
  
Harry blinked again, snapping back into reality and shuddering.  
  
You look disgusted, Potter, Draco spat, his voice a low, strained whisper. He held the brunette's confused green eyes for a long moment before turning back around again and storming from the bedroom.  
  
Harry jumped when the door slammed shut, and then his body relaxed immediately, the scent of dank uncleanliness occurring to him suddenly, the gritty black sheets rough against his legs. He wanted to justify it, to apply some kind of reason to what had just taken place. He had been shocked, seeing that, seeing Malfoy like that.  
  
Draco was right, he was right. He was just disgusted.  
  
Harry climbed down from the bed, still in a slight daze. He had never thought that Draco could look so human, so real to him, so unlike the perfectly clothed, perfectly predictable git that had tormented him all his days here. It amazed him that Draco had skin beneath the cashmere and blood beneath that, blood that flowed through a beating heart whose flesh, he knew, held hate and love and life.  
  
He walked from the bedroom, entering the main room of the closet without really seeing it. He heard the sound of pouring water coming from the bathroom - Draco was showering. Immediately images flowed to him, images of a pale chest and a slender neck, sneering lips - no, he pushed that away, that was wrong and he filed it away immediately, automatically.  
  
He walked past the bathroom door with some hesitation, and it was then that he spotted it. He had thrown his dirty grey sweater carelessly onto the black leather sofa, and Harry stared at it for a long moment, remembering what it looked like pulled snugly over his body.  
  
Without considering for even a second what he was doing, Harry reached into his pocket and swiftly withdrew his wand. He pointed it at the rumpled sweater, parting his lips slowly.  
  
he whispered, and in an instant the sweater was again a soft, rich grey. It lifted itself into the air and folded itself into a neat rectangle, and he nodded at it as he left the room hurriedly, not knowing if he would ever return, if he would ever want to return.  
  
He ran a hand back through his messy black hair once he met the dank dungeon air, sighing and hoping that said blonde prick had not caused him to miss breakfast.  
  
Good morning Drake! Pansy cooed, turning away from her fruit plate in time to beam at him fully before he slumped lazily into his place at the table. She continued to smile as he grunted at her, reaching immediately for his empty goblet.  
  
It is a good morning, isn't it? she sang, scooting toward him. Blaise, sensing an upcoming fight, turned toward the pair as he chewed through his bacon.  
  
Draco said, narrowing his eyes at the goblet.  
  
Your hair is damp, Pansy declared suddenly. She lifted her hand, patting him awkwardly on top of his head. You must have been in a real rush this morning if you didn't have time to properly finish your hair.  
  
She smirked, delighted at this. Blaise winced as the blonde between them suddenly slammed his goblet down on the wood, his unfocused eyes flaring momentarily with anger.  
  
he growled, and instantaneously his goblet was filled with a maple-covered liquid poured over crackling ice. Pansy whistled, impressed.  
  
You really have those house elves whipped! she exclaimed in awe. They must've heard stories about you from the one you lost, that odd one .. what was his name? Gobby?  
  
Draco did not answer. Instead, he raised the goblet to his lips, taking a long sip.  
  
Pansy blinked, confused for a moment at this. She pondered it for a moment, watching him as he set the goblet roughly back down, and then decided on optimism.  
  
I would need to drink too, you know, she said teasingly, leaning closer to whisper in Draco's ear. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance, his hand coiling more tightly around the goblet. Having to spend the whole day pretending to be thinking of lessons when really .. when really you're thinking about being alone with --  
  
Shut up the fuck up, Draco snapped fluidly, taking another long draw of his alcohol. Pansy frowned, her face falling as though slapped.  
  
It's not a good morning, then? she whimpered.  
  
Draco seethed. No, it is not a fucking good morning. This morning sucks like a dementor eating out my soul, this forsaken morning is fucking--  
  
Pansy sighed loudly, interrupting him.  
  
I knew he would do something, she said mournfully. He's so rash, isn't he? I knew he couldn't just take what was offered to him. He just always has to shake the box and break whatever's inside ...  
  
I was not _offering _myself--  
  
Ooo, I'm so mad, I could just spit venom! Pansy exclaimed loudly. She drew her hands into tight little fists to prove her point, quivering them over her forgotten breakfast plate. Boys are all so stupid! Just _stupid!_  
  
Blaise said oddly, leaning in.  
  
Just shut your face! Draco snapped at her, raising his goblet again. We are not talking about this, not now, not again! Just forget about it, won't you?  
  
Pansy yelped breathlessly. No, no, he ruined everything I set up!  
  
Don't even get me fucking started on how this is entirely your fault! You sent that bloody letter, you--  
  
And you tried so hard to intercept it, and after all that hard work, he has to go and ruin the meeting! Ohh, how dare he! the long-haired girl raged on, waving her hands about her wildly. And just look at you all sulky now, you were supposed to be so_ happy_, ohh it just makes me want to-  
  
I am _not _sulking over that--  
  
What are we talking about again? Blaise whimpered.  
  
--jinx him or something! Yes! Yes, I'll jinx him! No -- I'll jinx his broom, that really nice one he's got, the lightning bolt! Yes, I'll make it so that it really shocks him! Oh, that will show him, setting off my plans--  
  
It's called a firebolt, you daft, pathetic little female, and you can't jinx it, Draco hissed, his face tinted a firm shade of red. You'd have to be a bloody expert in Quidditch brooms to do that, you can't just--  
  
Pansy cried again, slamming her fists weakly onto the table. I know what I'll do! I'll go _have a word _with him .. right this instant .. hmmph!  
  
With this she stood up dramatically, jumping over the bench and storming away from the Slytherin table. Draco's eyes widened, and he glared at her warningly, but when it appeared that she was not going to stop he, too, jumped from his seat and followed her.  
  
As she approached the table, Hermione was the first to look up, turning away from her open Charms textbook and plate of buttered toast at the sound of her loudly clicking high heels. Ron, alarmed by the movement of Hermione's head, then turned around as well, and he raised an eyebrow at the sight of her. Harry's head remained down, and he was chewing slowly, oblivious.  
  
Well, well, Pansy spat maliciously, standing in front of the group. She stood with one hip cocked out, her hand resting on it confidently. How nice to see the Gryffindor dream team up and running so early in the morning.  
  
Ron scowled at this, his ears flushing red.  
  
Morning, Malfoy, he said maliciously. Finally got those breasts you wanted?  
  
Pansy gasped, outraged. She withdrew her cherrywood wand in an instant.  
  
How dare you insult him! she yelped, raising it into the air and pointing it deftly at the redhead. How insolent! I'll have you know that Draco's male body is quite perfect, unlike yours! Your weight is entirely out of proportion and, and .. maroon looks _dreadful _on you!  
  
At least I don't dress like some kind of Death Eater .. ehrm .. whore! Ron shouted back, pointing his wand back at her. And .. and your--  
  
Ronald, be quiet, Hermione snapped, agitated by the fight. She turned toward Pansy, frowning gravely. What do you want with us?  
  
she scoffed, glaring at the redhead before shifting her attention to the bushy-haired brunette before her. Her face softened somewhat.  
  
I'm here to have a word, she said loudly, definitely, with Potter!  
  
What did Harry ever do to you, ehh? Ron growled, but it was too late. Harry had turned around moments earlier, and had been watching the scoff blankly, as if in an odd sort of trance. Pansy now spun her head toward him, her lips curling into a sneer at the sight of his face.  
  
she yelped. Do you have anything to say for yourself?  
  
In defense of what? Harry asked uneasily.  
  
Don't fuck with me today, Potter! Pansy spat unpleasantly, her voice high-pitched and dripping with implied warning. I'll only tell you this once - _no one, _not even you, messes with my Drake!  
  
I didn't do anything to him, Harry said slowly, narrowing his eyes at her. Pansy scowled, her own eyes narrowing dangerously.  
  
Oh, I'm sure, she said, rolling her eyes. Don't play innocent with me, Potter, I know what you did, I know you--  
  
-- must be hungry, so I'm going to fucking leave you alone now, aren't I? said a sleek, infuriated voice from behind her. Pansy raised an elegant eyebrow and turned her head to look behind herself. She paled when she found herself into looking straight into Draco's strained face.  
  
Pansy began, wincing at the murderous look in Draco's silver eyes. Yes, maybe you're right. We'll talk later, Potter, just .. enjoy your .. bacon ..  
  
Harry merely frowned at her, and Pansy turned to look at Draco, a pout on her face. He scowled and grabbed a fistful of her sleeve, tugging her roughly to the side.  
  
Let's go, he hissed at her, and the long-haired girl shrugged as he began to drag her away inch by inch from the Gryffindor table.  
  
Later, ickle Drakey, Ron said maliciously from the table, waving at Pansy cynically as she was pulled away. Instantly her eyes narrowed, and Draco stopped suddenly, his grip on her sleeve slackening.  
  
She leaned her head back, twisting her neck so that she could whisper into his ear.  
  
Just him? she mouthed, then smirked. Draco was still for a second, and then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Pansy's smirk erupted into a full grin, and she drew her eyes back to the Gryffindor table, locking them onto a certain redhead. A moment later, she raised her wand.  
  
She screamed the curse, and Ron froze in his seat, waiting for something terrible to ravage his body - but nothing did. He watched blankly as Pansy laughed maliciously, then turned to walk arm-in-arm with Malfoy back to their respective table.  
  
When he turned back to his breakfast, he saw that everyone around him was staring at him blankly, their jaws slack.  
  
said Ron, a sinking feeling dropping into his stomach. It was then that he felt it - an odd tightness on the top of his head, and a strange heaviness as well, as though his hair were wet. Cautiously, he raised his hands, pressing his fingers onto his scalp.  
  
He heard a tiny crackle, like a foot sinking into snow. His hair was not as it used to be; it was hard, brittle almost, and it seemed to be sticky. He paled, turning to Hermione, whose usually composed face seemed numb with shock.  
  
What did she do to it, Herm? he said bracingly. Hermione closed her mouth, then opened it again, seemingly unable to speak. He frowned further, the sinking feeling deepening. Come on, just tell me. I can take it, I swear.  
  
said Hermione, blinking. Oh, yes, well .. Ronald .. ahh .. here ..  
  
She withdrew her own wand and in a soft flick of her wrist, conjured a small silver hand mirror. She offered it weakly to Ron, who swallowed hard as he took it.  
  
Ron raised the mirror into the air, positioning it first so that he could see his face. He sighed in relief - all was normal. His face was still pale, smooth and full of light freckles. It took a great deal of self-control, however, to pull back the mirror enough to see not just his face, but his hair and neck.  
  
And when he finally did, he screamed.  
  
BLEEDING HELL! he shouted, dropping the mirror. It shattered suddenly over his breakfast, and muttering a few words of sympathy, Hermione dispelled the broken glass with her wand. Ron ignored her as he dug his hands into his hair, tearing at it, trying to make it move or stick up, but it would budge an inch. He whimpered desperately.  
  
Make it go away Hermione, make it go away, he commanded, and she raised her hand to his head, tapping it with her wand. She was still trying out counterspells in vain when Pansy, far over at the Slytherin table, burst suddenly into laughter.  
  
Even Draco, miserable and infuriated as he was, could not resist a tiny smirk.  
  
That slicked-back look never did suit you, she said between fits of giggles, grabbing at her flat stomach. And you can imagine, if it didn't look good on you .. imagine .. well, you don't need to imagine .. how it looks on .. on .. Weasel ..  
  
She broke out laughing again, and Draco calmly took up his firewhiskey, sipping it slowly.  
  
A blonde Weasel, he reflected, his lips twitching, yearning for release into their familiar, full-out smirk. I have to say, Pansy, the hair color stereotype does suit his level of intelligence.  
  
Not just .. blonde! Pansy cried, tearing streaming from her cheeks as she continued to laugh. Blonde .. with hair .. like the twelve year old .. you! Ahahaah! Hah! Blonde .. Weasley .. so .. ahahaha ..  
  
Draco said smoothly. It amuses me, too. I think, in fact, that this has proved to be one of the rare times in life during which you've done something .. clever.  
  
He shook the ice of his goblet lightly with a flick of his wrist, shallowly content. Pansy, still wheezing from her uncontrollable laughter, managed to calm herself enough to turn to him and smile wickedly.  
  
Can't argue with a compliment from you, darling, she grinned, resting her cheek lazily on her hand as she stared at him, raising her eyebrow contemplatively. Draco eyed her back for a long time, the moment fading until suddenly, she once again seemed devilishly suspicious.  
  
he snapped, frowning at her.  
  
Oh, nothing, she sighed. I was just thinking of the day when you'll someday be thanking me for, well .. _everything_ I've done. She finished by quirking her lips and licking them slowly, and Draco scowled.  
  
I highly doubt that, he sneered, but Pansy was giggling again, turning away from him and back to her breakfast. Once she was entirely sure he was not watching her, she narrowed her eyes, letting herself think. Weasel's comment had been avenged, yes, but Potter's idiotic refusal of Draco .. well.  
  
She smirked fully, deciding to herself that it was high time the final stage of the game began.  
  
**Harry**: ... that's an interesting mental image.  
  
**Draco**: BWHAHAHAHHAHA! Fucking with the Weasel! I give this chapter a 1, one for that and zero for the rest of the crap!  
  
**Harry**: I can't get that image out of my head ... Ron with ...  
  
**Draco**: I think, Rose, that you may have redeemed 0.01 of your dignity in my eyes.  
  
**Rose**: Awe, thank you precious!  
  
**Harry**: .... falls over.  
  
**Draco**: Let's celebrate by drinking firewhiskey, yes?!  
  
**Rose**: YES!  
  
**- Two Hours Later -**  
  
**Draco**: So .. Rose.  
  
**Rose**: Mmmrph .. ehrm .. wes Drawkor?  
  
**Draco**: Why don't you tell me where you keep your ... Muggle stamps!? Hahah .. hah .. yes, wouldn't it be fun to tell me that?  
  
**Rose**: Chhh .. I don't havvve nee .. shtawmps .. Warry! Lesh .. lesh .. zzz.  
  
**Harry**: Mmm .. kaaai ... wello?  
  
**Draco**: ... hmm. Pretty wasted, Potter?  
  
**Harry**: ... mmm'hmmm ...  
  
**Draco**: Come over here. 


	24. Shove In The Right Direction

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: I have not updated in like .. forever. Meh, between high school, work and my vacations to New Jersey, it's been so hard to find the time! But at least ... a new chapter has finally arrived. I'm looking forward to writing the next ones, they're going to be super fun. I am a naughty little girl, aren't I? Please enjoy the chapter!

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Tuesday evening _in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to **ALL MY REVIEWERS! **  
Muah muah, love you darlings!

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For the first time in the entirety of his life, Draco was grateful for the Weasel.

The redhead-turned-helmet-haired-blonde had, as sourly as he hated to admit it, been the saving grace of the day. Each time his eyes wandered of their own accord to Potter, piercing the delicate lines of his face only to soften seconds later, the Weasel seemed to pop in, stopping the moment from becoming revealing and painful.

Yes, the freckled blonde's jeers, sneers and occasional middle finger rather saved his day. He could not glimpse at _him _without being reminded constantly, by _his _infuriated best friend, of his place in his life. He was his enemy, he was the one who would deal torture, deal ridicule, until they separately indefinitely. He was the predictable rival, cruel and secure.

Staring at Potter alone made him forget that. It made him remember the words that spilled from his mouth, the confession he could not bear to accept having made, and it recalled in his mind the response, the lush verbal expression of hate, sharp words pouring one after another from the mouth he had kissed the week earlier in a moment of delirium. He could not forget the way the words had torn at his emotional plexus, and the way they gnawed away at him now.

Until he saw the Weasel, with his rock-hard bleached head. The corners of his lips quirked up then, and he remembered rather cynically how it had once been. He recalled how simple, how incredibly easy it had been to be free to hate in return.

You seem pensive, Draco, Pansy said silkily, turning her head from her books to look up at him with a fragile smirk. She was kneeling on the floor, her work spilled across the glass table that sat before the sofa on which he sat. He raised an eyebrow at her warningly; he knew what she wanted.

She wanted to know what he was thinking, and he would have none of it.

she hummed, waiting. When he did not respond she began to pout, dropping her quill and crawling toward him, her hair spilling messily down her back.

Get away from me, he snapped, raising his foot as though ready to kick her side. Her smirk deepened, and she straightened her back, tilting her head slightly to the side.

You're distraught, I can always tell, she declared subtlety, and to his horror bent back down only to cross her forearms over his knee, resting her chin deftly on her wrists and looking up at him patiently. He sneered, bouncing his knee suddenly and forcing her back up.

she shrieked, stumbling to a stand and pouting down at him angrily. I think you made me bite my tongue!I didn't realize you were capable of such a thing, Draco spat, looking at her with displaced rage in his eyes.

Pansy scoffed, her pout deepening into a frustrated scowl. Fine, you be that way! Just _be _the prick you're expected to be! It isn't _my _fault that he did - well, whatever stupid thing it was that he did! Go take it up with him, not your friends!I never want to talk to that fucking arsehole again, Draco mumbled under his breath, his hands writhing in his lap. It will be excruciating enough just having to _look_ at him for the next year and a half.In that case save yourself some excruciation and talk with him, Pansy huffed, placing a hand defiantly on her hip. He's a smart boy, I'm sure he can be convinced with a little bit of sweet talk.Sweet talk? Draco choked in disbelief, his voice rising. Sweet talk?! I'll show that fucking git sweet talk! I'll take his wand and shove it up his-I thought so, the girl said, sighing dramatically. You know, dearest, at this rate you'll never be together. One of you is going to have to give in.Fuck that ever happening, the blonde mumbled, curling his hands into fists that sat on his knees. And it sure as fuck wouldn't be me.I'm getting that idea, Pansy droled sarcastically.

Just fuck off, Pansy, Draco snapped, scowling. He looked up, meeting her eyes savagely. Go help someone who wants it.

The long-haired girl gasped, outraged. She narrowed her eyes, lifting her hand off her hip only to point at him rudely.

I think I will! she shrieked, stabbing her finger in his general direction. At this several of the other Slytherins occupying the common room turning their heads curiously, some smirking at the familiar scene. BLAISE! We are not wanted here! Blaise said, lifting his head from his Transfiguration textbook.

Come along, _friend_ Blaise! We're going to your dormitory to chat, seeing as DRACO HERE wants to be _alone._ Draco spat harshly, earning another loud from Pansy's twisted lips. Blaise frowned, slightly confused, and began packing up his things.

You mark my words, Drake! the long-haired girl yelped as she began to walk away, Blaise in tow, One of these days, you'll be kissing my arse in gratitude for all the things I've done!If I haven't blown it off! he hissed.

Mark my words! Mark them, darling!

She pointed at him dramatically again, her face flushed red with anger, and turned to begin walking swiftly toward the stairs to the boys' dormitories. Blaise followed her numbly, glancing between her back and Draco's infuriated face several times before regretfully disappearing behind her.

Draco spat sourly, alone at last, his hands still writhing in frustration and surpressed anger. Always so _fucking _optimistic. Ron yelped, grinning widely and lifting his head to look up cheerfully at his friend. He lurched his bishop across three squares, landing it just one away from Harry's white king, which inched away warily.

Harry, his green eyes half-hidden under his thick, dark hair, blinked and continued to stare blankly at the space between his feet.

Ron prompted, frowning. He tilted his head to the side, waiting a long moment before turning around to look up doubtfully at Hermione. Her lips twitched downward, and she closed her book quietly, turning sad eyes on her friend.

Harry had been acting strangely ever since last night. After Pansy's rant-cut-short at this morning's breakfast, he had been eerily quiet, a sharp contrast to Ron's almost constant ravings against Malfoy and his female sidekick. Every attempt to rouse Harry into agreeing with him, every prompt he threw out to get Harry to help him plot revenge against the Slytherins, was met with neutral comments and downcast looks. Ronald had eventually given up, putting his anger aside long enough for a bit of homework and a friendly game of chess - but even that had not improved his somber mood.

Hermione sighed a little, shrugging her shoulders at Ron, who frowned and turned away. She couldn't be sure, of course, what the problem was, but she had narrowed it down to one of two things. The first possibility was that they'd fought - no stretch of the imagination was needed there. It explained Pansy being irritated with Harry, as everyone knew she was horribly protective of Malfoy. And yet, Hermione's mind drifted more keenly toward the second possibility.

Harry was depressed that he had to keep his lover, his relationship - and in fact, an important aspect of himself - hidden. He'd had a terrible childhood, one in which his very individuality had been rejected. She knew that he probably thought it was necessary to hide his sexuality in order to keep the acceptance of those around him, even his closest friends.

She twisted her fingers together absently, hoping that he would feel comfortable enough to come to herself and Ron soon enough. Even if he left his relationship with Malfoy out of the confession, it was an important step, and one that she was sure would help him to be more content. She would try her best to show her support for Harry, if only indirectly.

Your move, Harry, Ron said loudly, coughing a little after saying his name. Harry blinked again, lifting his head up slowly, his lips parted as though he had been surprised. You're in check. Harry said absently. He reached out, moving his king a square toward himself and then withdrawing his hand immediately, appearing not to have thought much about the move at all. Ron's face twisted as though he were ill.

he began, his jaw dropping a little. You sure about that move? Harry grunted, turning his eyes toward the fire. Hermione was certain, she noted sadly, that he had not so much as glanced at the chessboard.

But you're still in check, Ron protested, wincing slightly. Does that mean you give up?I guess it does, Harry replied dully. Ron's eyes widened with surprise, and he paled a little, shocked.

You can redo your move if you want, I wouldn't mind--It's fine. You win, Harry said, almost bitterly, as though he were speaking to someone else entirely. The flames of the dying common room fire dancing in his eyes, strangely slow in the deep emerald orbs. Good game, Ron.But Harry--It's okay, Hermione interjected immediately, not wanting it to go on. She felt for Harry, and knew that pretending to be interested in something he disliked strained him greatly. She needed the change to encourage him to open up anyhow, and what better time than when they were all gathered together in the common room, alone and relaxed? Let's just talk.Fine, we can talk, sulked Ron, slightly annoyed that he'd been cheated out of a chess game. Let's talk about the revenge we have yet to plan against Malfoy and his little tag-along! I've been mentioning it all day, and no one-You know, that reminds me, Hermione began loudly, speaking over Ron's words. I've been reading the most interesting book about Slytherins lately.Oh, have you? Ron snapped. Does it say how they're best murdered and prepared for dinner, because otherwise-No _Ronald_, it's actually a book entitled _Three Hundred Good-Hearted Slytherins of the Past Three Centuries, _and it's about Slytherin students who've ended up doing good things for the wizarding world, she finished sharply, narrowing her eyes at him.

I see, seethed Ron quietly. Why don't you tell us about one, Hermione?Thank you, Ronald, she said, glaring at him as she reopened the book that had been sprawled across her lap. I think I will! You know, a witch named Neera Magdellen, graduated 1757, went on to invent potions that eased the pain of childbirth without eliminating feeling within the woman's body.Probably to encourage purebloods like the Malfoys to have as many heirs as possible, the redhead snapped, scowling. I swear to Merlin, Slytherins will go to any length to populate the wizarding world with their-They aren't _all _bad, Ronald! Hermione shrieked. She jerked her head toward Harry, locking her chocolate eyes with his slightly alarmed ones as she spoke. They're people, Ron, just like us, and everyone has the free will to choose whether they want to fill their life with love or hate. Malfoy may have been raised to follow a certain path, but that doesn't mean that he necessarily has to choose-Please, Hermione, Ron said in disgust, sneering. I think we all know what side Malfoy is on. I mean, look at the way that arsehole's been treating us all this time, it's obvious that-Will you just shut the _bloody_ hell up about MALFOY already?! Harry shouted suddenly, jumping unsteadily to his feet. Ron's mouth snapped shut immediately, and Hermione's hung open, slack with utter shock.

All day it's been fuck Malfoy this, fuck Malfoy that, well I'm fucking sick of hearing about him! I don't care what happens to him, I don't care if he gets what he deserves or if he goes on to be rich and spoiled until the day he dies, I just don't CARE anymore! he raged. As he finished his breathing was heavy, and he was almost panting. I don't want to hear another word about him! Hermione began weakly, but was immediately silenced.

Not another _word_, Harry hissed, grabbing his bookbag roughly and swinging it over his shoulder. He gave both of his friends dirty looks before rushing toward the stairs to the boys' dormitories, his footsteps thundering as he climbed them.

Hermione swallowed nervously as she watched him go, writhing her hands uncomfortably. She turned to Ron a minute later, her face pale and startled.

I just don't know what to say to him, Ron, she whispered, blinking her eyes slowly. I can't read how he feels, and I don't know what happened to cause this ...It must have been Malfoy, the redhead spat bitterly.

Hermione merely sighed.

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Are you _insane?!_ Blaise hissed, his eyes widening in disbelief. His bag slid from his shoulder as they slackened, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Pansy rolled her eyes, gesturing dismissively at him.

Be quiet, won't you? she said with exasperation, drawing her wand and sealing the room with quick silence charms. Really darling, do you want the whole House to hear about this? It's a secret plan!It's the most senile plan I've ever fucking heard! he yelped, gesturing wildly and beginning to pace aimlessly around the protected dormitory. It's just bloody madness! Draco doesn't want .. doesn't want .. _that_!Oh trust me, precious, he does, Pansy said smugly. His heart is just begging for it, and his body too, I'm sure, but you know Draco. He has to keep up the straight and narrow family image, always the elegant bastard.That's impossible, Blaise insisted stubbornly. His body wants .. well .. people like you!Thank you dear but _no_, that's entirely incorrect, she smiled. You know that Draco could have the pick of the Slytherin female litter, but he's distanced himself quite far from those possibilities.But Draco's never said anything-Would he? Pansy continued. Come on Blaise, use your mind! He wears fluffy sweaters, for Merlin's sake.They're not fluffy, Blaise winced. They're chenille! Pansy said slowly, mouthing out the word. Blaise paled, his gestures slowing as years of Italian hair gel, Chanel perfumes and snug-fitting, expensive clothes caught up with him.

All right, fine then, Blaise admitted hesitantly. Assuming that Draco is indeed .. ehrm .. _not straight_ .. why the hell would you pick Potter? Why him of all people? Draco loathes him!Mmm, yes he does, and so very, very much, Pansy purred, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. There's a thin line separating hate like that from something more, and darling, he's crossed it.Even if they fucked, it wouldn't last, Blaise spat, paling as his words hit him, forming an uncomfortable mental image. It was several seconds before he continued. You know that it can't, Pansy. There are fundamental differences there! That and .. lifestyle differences .. different futures ..Never assume that things will happen, Pansy pointed out darkly.

But .. their personalities! Blaise yelped, not liking at all where their conversation was heading.

Perfect compliments, she sighed happily, clasping her hands together. When night and day combine, they make a sunrise!Or a sunset, her friend frowned, darting his narrowed eyes around the room.

Just trust me on this, if you can't see it just yet, Pansy ordered, a smile spreading across her sharp features. They want each other. The problem is that neither one will admit it, because they're both so fucking stubborn and proud. Obviously, some intervention is required ..What kind of intervention are we talking about? Blaise said doubtfully, walking over to his bed and sitting down on it heavily. Pansy followed him, sitting cross-legged on the bed across from him, her face in her hands.

she said, smiling proudly, for of course it was ingenious,This is something that Draco would never do himself. No amount of encouragement could get him to make the first move. And naturally, Potter would think we were full of shit if we approached him.What are you suggesting? Blaise said suspiciously, his eyes narrowing further. Are you saying we cast the Impervius curse on him? Because you know that Draco's had loads of training to overcome something like that.No, no, not that, Pansy said dismissively, as though insulted. You know how Draco quit the Quidditch team? Blaise said bitterly, his face darkening. Damn shame too, I don't know why he had to go and do it. He was one of our best, and our new seeker can't compare in the least. We're screwed with Potter still-And who knows about this? Pansy continued, interrupting him. Blaise paused, staring at her for a moment before answering.

You, me, the team, the other Slytherins, I guess, I know it's gotten around, Blaise said uncomfortably. Everyone's been too afraid to harass Draco about it, but they know.And the Gryffindors? Pansy continued almost absently.

None of the other Houses know, Blaise said, smirking a little. We're going to let everyone just be surprised at the game on Saturday. Gryffindor's strategy will be fucked, they plan it so much around winning over Draco. It's our only chance to beat them, really.So no one knows! Pansy declared, grinning.

Blaise nodded, frowning a little, frightened at what was coming.

she purring, leaning toward him with wide eyes, eyes alive with anticipation. Now that you recall that, darling, here's our plan. We're going to steal a bit of Draco's hair off of one of his sweaters, and then I'm going to use black market polyjuice potion to transform myself into him, play as Slytherin seeker during the game, end it quickly and then seduce Potter-YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING--in the locker room showers! Once Potter melts into my arms as Draco he'll have to admit his feelings for him, and once Draco knows that Potter wants him just as badly he'll feel like he has the upperhand! Then he'll make a move and then they'll be together for-KIDDING ME! Blaise screamed, jumping off the bed and walking toward her. Do you know how many different ways that could go wrong?! One, it's illegal to disguise a player as another in Quidditch, two, you suck at the game and you'd fuck the game over to Gryffindor, three, Draco will MURDER US BOTH, fourth-Oh for Merlin's sake, dear, don't be so pessimistic, Pansy argued contentedly. Everything will go just as planned, and then our delightful Drake will be happy at last. She sighed dramatically, twirling her hair between her fingers. And that's the point of everything, after all. Draco deserves that kind of love.It's going to blow up in your face, Blaise snapped.

Our faces, darling, Pansy grinned, patting gently on the bed. He reluctantly approached her, sitting down with a quiet flop.

I never said I would help you, he said stubbornly, frowning darkly.

Don't you want Draco to be happy? she purred, sliding her hand up and down his arm soothingly.

Not this much, Blaise scowled, though his lips twitched a little at the action, and he did not pull away from her.

Well, look at this way, she said cheerfully, her lips lifting into a gentle smile. Once we finish helping Draco find love, we can focus more on our own love lives.Sounds depressing, he spat, adverting his eyes.

We could also get some firewhiskey and celebrate our pretty asses off, Pansy smirked, raising her eyebrows suggestively. A fitting reward for all our charity! Blaise hummed, considering, though again his lips twitched as though resisting a smile.

Pansy laughed, rubbing her hands together smoothly over her lap. It would work, of course, as all her brilliant plans did, and it would go off without a hitch. This time next week, her most beloved blonde friend would be curled up naked in the arms of their green-eyed enemy.

She sighed happily, turning to Blaise with warm eyes. What better image could a woman ask for?

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Harry: Draco, what the hell are you eating?

Draco: A Krispy Kreme donut. My life fucking sucks.

Harry: Didn't you have one a few hours ago? You're going to get fat!

Draco: I don't care. I surrender, I surrender to the captivity! I may as well enjoy as many calories as I can.

Harry: Give me that donut.

Draco: No, fuck off. Your hope sickens me.

Harry: GIVE ME THE DONUT.

Draco: NEVER! It's mine, get your own! HEY! NOT THAT!

Harry: What's in this glass? ...what the hell! You can't have vodka with a DONUT!

Draco: I told you, I'm depressed! Now give it back! I'm fucking thirsty!

Harry: I won't let you do this to yourself! Jesus Christ, pull yourself together!

Draco: Oh, the irony .. beautiful me, alone with alcohol and sugar-flavored balls of saturated fat ...

Harry: You live with me, you know.

Draco: Woe is me ... ROSE!

Rose: What is it, precious? More vodka? More cream-filled goodness?

Draco: No, I'm fine .. but fetch this poor, disillusioned soul a glass of absolute. He will drown himself in sorrow with me, and together we will rot into oblivion.

Rose: Okay, darling!

Harry: sigh Do you have jelly-filled?


	25. Friends In High Places

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: Ahh god I've been gone forever. Sorry, darlings .. but I've been busy, at least, I have that excuse. Between school and work, it's very difficult to find time to write, and sometimes, even the motivation. Not to mention the fact that I spent two weeks away with my boyfriend for Christmas, and he loathes this pair ... heh, heh. Well, this chapter is a little short and simple, but I'll pump out more soon, certainly at a faster pace than this one. I hope you had happy holidays!

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Wednesday morning _in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to HP-DM fanart drawers everywhere!  
An image is worth a thousand chapters!

Draco Malfoy sat unpleasantly at the breakfast table, chewing eggs that tasted like salted rubber. Recent events had ruined the menial joy of even food, it seemed, and it was only to keep up appearances that he ate his customary mouthful of various dishes. He would not starve himself for misery caused by Potter.

He kept his eyes carefully adverted from the direction of across-the-room, flicking them between his friends and occasionally down at his plate as Pansy rattled on, twirling her fork in the air as though conducting an orchestra.

And then she had the nerve to accuse me of sleeping with him, she said offhandedly, and catching his eye, pausing to smile before continuing. So I told her, don't you fret about it, darling, that was years ago! What a paranoid twit ..

Draco sighed, stabbing a sausage with unnecessary force. How long would this insanity go on? He couldn't dwell on it forever, he would eventually need to move on. He wondered how much skill one had to gain in order to erase memories from one's own mind with precision.

That's, umm, unfortunate Pansy, Blaise said over the blonde's shoulder, chewing his slice of bacon slowly, appearing to think very carefully before replying. She does sound ... foolish. Very unlike a Ravenclaw ..Ohh, I love a Ravenclaw, she smirked devilishly, nudging her fork into her hair and spinning it. They have excellent creative thinking skills, especially on the spot, you know. And they always remember their favors ..Can we talk about something other than shagging, please? Draco snapped, scowling warningly at her before beginning to obsessively cut his sausage into tiny, obscure pieces. Goddamn meaningless conversations ..Oh, right, Ravenclaws, yeah, Blaise stuttered. So, Draco, did you, uhm. Catch the Quidditch World Cup this past summer?

Draco turned his head slowly toward him, eyes narrowed with irritation, the violet shadows beneath them obvious.

Of course I did, he spat. My father receives tickets every year!Oh, right, of course you did, Blaise said quickly, his grin sheepish. I, ahh, missed it myself. Could you relate a play to me? In... in detail? Draco frowned, aghast. You want to hear about it now? In the middle of November? You didn't say a bloody word about it before!Oh, don't mind me, off to the little witches' room, Pansy chirped. She slipped from her seat, quirking her eyebrows knowingly at Blaise. He held her eyes for a long moment, his stomach sinking at the prospect of the task ahead of him, before turning back to his blonde friend.

Draco was not one to be easily fooled, but perhaps, just this once, he could be in the least distracted.

Well, it just, ahh, popped into my head, he said, his cheeks reddening with the effort of trying to be effectively casual. His charge's silver head had dipped back down toward his plate, his matching eyes bitter and sullen. 

Draco snorted, plunging a fork into eggs he had no intention of ingesting. I don't really recall. Ireland won by a landslide, and then the fans of both teams got wasted on firewhiskey. The same drawl as every year ..That's really great, Blaise swallowed, nonchalantly reaching for a biscuit. He used the moment to quickly dash his eyes toward Pansy, who had made her way successfully to the Ravenclaw table and was now bending over her prime target. He watched as she let her pool of hair drape over his shoulder, her pouty mouth bending toward his neck.

She whispered something devilish into his ear, and within moments the chesnut-haired Ravenclaw stiffened, dropping his utensils. With a cheery pat on his shoulder, Pansy turned away, making her way now toward the Great Hall doors. A few minutes later, the Ravenclaw stood, and the two disappeared.

Blaise breathed a sigh of relief, letting his biscuit drop to his plate. She had slipped away, unnoticed by Draco's deathly glares. His part of the breakfast mission had been, at least for now, successful.

.. think there were some bonfires. Green ones, for the winning colors .. and .. yeah.

Blaise turned slowly toward the blonde, who was muttering quietly to himself, his eyes wide and glazed over. He felt his lips twist downward doubtfully, a tightness brewing strangely in his chest until he realized - with some shock - what it was he felt. He felt, just vaguely, pity for his friend.

Pity, _pity_ for Draco Malfoy. And then, suddenly, it came to him. Just how vital this insane plan of Pansy's really was. Draco, in some impossible, unlikely way, needed this, if only to kick-start something greater.

Blaise uttered weakly in response to Draco's broken description. He fingered his biscuit idly, digging his fingernails into the crispy crust. Pansy was gone, wasn't she? He could probe now, he could take a little risk. He could see if it were a little true, if it were possible. Hey ... you know who would be really .. a lot more fun to talk with about Quidditch? I mean, ahh, who knows a lot more about it than me?Half the school? Draco snapped, not lifting his eyes from his mangled food. Fuck, I need a coffee.No, I mean, Blaise said, stopping to take in a deep breath. I mean.Spit it out, god, Draco murmured, his eyebrows furrowing slightly in irritation.

Harry Potter.

Blaise had never heard such a terrible silence before. It rang in the air like the ringing that comes up occasionally in your ears, shrill and unending, engulfing. He watched as Draco twitched, his eyes shutting closed and his teeth grinding together slowly.

Ehrm, I meant .. not ..Have you been talking to her? Draco whispered, a nearly inaudible, dangerous whisper.

With .. her? Blaise squeaked.

Yes with her, with that miserable, meddling, sassy little bitch of a woman .. wait .. god, where the fuck is she? Draco snapped, lifting his head to swing it back and forth along the table. Everytime I want a bloody word with her she's gone .. bloody .. well?! Where is she? Blaise muttered, blanching. The little witches' room?

Draco turned to him slowly, his silver eyes blazing. As soon as they reached his face, bore into his own eyes like daggers, Blaise knew that he knew. Draco was not easily fooled.

He dropped his fork, leaning toward him suddenly, his eyes black ice.

Tell me, Blaise .. _where is she?_In here, Pansy whispered, pushing insistently against his shoulders. The Ravenclaw, a lanky but attractive boy named Ferdinand, walked toward the door. He hesitated, staring reluctantly at the gold-plated word _Witches_ embossed in the wood.

Are you sure it isn't charmed against letting boys inside? he asked, turning his head back slightly to look, dumbfounded, at Pansy.

Nonsense, what man would want to try? she snapped, her eyes glaring up and down the hallway warily. She pushed hard against his shoulders, frowning. Now in with you already!

Ferdinand grunted, obliging as he let himself be pushed toward and through the swinging door. As soon as they were both inside, Pansy snatched his hand and guided him hastily into an empty stall, shutting the door quickly behind them. As expected, the bathroom was empty - most girls preferred to use their much cleaner, more elegant dormitory bathrooms in the morning.

What the bloody hell is this about? Ferdinand said irritably, frowning down at the girl standing just inches away from him, their two bodies pushed together awkwardly in the stall. Couldn't you have owled me?Too slow, Pansy said quickly. Now sit on top of the toilet.What? I am not going to sit on top of this dirty-If someone walks in here, they can't see two pairs of feet! Now sit, honestly! Pansy hissed shrilly, shoving him in the chest. Ferdinand gasped, outraged, but sat up on top of it anyhow, his legs dangling.

This had better be good, Panse, he said grumpily. I'm missing my breakfast, and if we don't hurry I'll be late for my first cla-Yes yes, sorry sorry, but I have an emergency, Pansy spit out, stepping closer to him. Ferdinand cringed, leaning back as far into the wall as he could. I need polyjuice. Badly. Ferdinand said, one eyebrow raising, Well, that's no problem. I can have it to you in a month.No, that's too late! Pansy scowled. Damn you, I need it now! As within the end of this week _now_!Well, that's just too bad, Ferdinand said, looking down at her with a nasty expression on his face. It takes a month to brew the thing, I can't just make it appear out of nowhere.Don't you play with me, Pansy said darkly, narrowing her eyes at him. I know that you do it monthly and sell it to those in . I know everything that goes on in this school, including your underground potions ring!That doesn't change the fact that it takes a month to brew, Ferdinand grumbled.

You have to have some left over from last month, Pansy hissed. Tell me the truth, do you?Hmm ..Tell me! she snapped, reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of his robe. Gods, I don't have time to argue with you!I do, Ferdinand said at last. For loyal customers, maybe. But not for you.

Pansy tightened her grip on his robe, lifting it slightly as she gritted her teeth, fighting hard against screaming her head off at the boy. After a long, calming moment, however, she let her pent-up breath whistle through her teeth, her arm lowering as she suddenly released his robe.

she said slowly, trying her best to control her temper. Alright. Now, Ferdy, think about this. Think about all I've done for you over the years ..You've done absolutely nothing for me! Ferdinand snapped defensively.

I made you a man, Pansy whispered, her voice suddenly seductive. Come now, just one little favor .. for old time's sake?

Ferdinand scowled down at her.

Oh come on, it was great! she yelped, pouting girlishly. You know it was great ...Yeah, it was, he growled. Great until you dumped me four days later.Darling, you know we had our differences ..By owl.I was immature .. stupid, even, Pansy went on silkily. I was a stupid girl, but really now .. that was in the past .. we're so much older now .. Ferdinand considered. Fine ... one hundred and fifty galleons. Pansy nearly screamed, her pout vanishing as blood rushed her to outraged face. One hundred and fifty? That's bloody murder!For old time's sake, Ferdinand repeated smugly, crossing his arms.

You can take that money and buy yourself a whore, Pansy hissed, stabbing her finger savagely into his chest. Because by the time I've gotten through the Ravenclaw rumor mill, you'll be tiny, gay and infected with one hundred and fifty incurable diseases!

With a final humph and one last very, very dirty look, she spun on her heel and stormed from the bathroom stall, letting it swing open behind her and slam against the wall.

She was just passing the last sink when he called out to her.

he called, jumping from the toilet and hurrying out into the open area. Wait .. fifty, fifty and you tell Arianna LaFayette how you miss being in bed with me.

Pansy stopped, turning around slowly, a smirk on her lips.

she said calmly, her eyes flashing with mirth, And I tell her that you were the best bloody shag of my young life.

Ferdinand's lips twitched into a slight smile, and he nodded.

Deal, darling. Always a pleasure working with old friends.

She felt smug, elated even, until she entered the Great Hall and immediately felt his eyes.

As Pansy walked back toward the Slytherin table, she nearly died, her insides sinking and twisting within her body, her gait as slow as physically possible. She should have been pleased - step one of the mission was complete - but instead she felt as though she were about to faint.

Draco was staring directly at her, watching her every step, his eyes narrowed into unblinking slits. He knew something, and he was furious ... but she couldn't let things go sour so early in the plan, it was too important for that. She would have to cover for herself.

_Bloody hell, Blaise, what the fuck did he get out of you ...'_

She swallowed hard as she sat down at the table, forcing herself to remain composed, nonchalant. Draco turned on her immediately, and she turned to face him bravely, her lips set into a firm, sleek smile.

What the fuck were you doing? he growled, leaning toward her slightly.

I was .. using the little witches' room, she said easily, reaching for her orange juice and taking a long, savoring sip.

Draco breathed. Were you? For ten bloody minutes?

Pansy nodded, taking another long sip.

Can you explain, then, why you left and entered with .. with whoever that fucking _Ravenclaw_ is? 

He pointed directly at Ferdinand, and Pansy swallowed hard.

she began slowly. I didn't leave with ...Don't bother, Blaise told me everything, Draco seethed at once, his voice rising. Pansy's face paled, and she leaned to the side to glare nastily in Blaise's direction, who cringed and said nothing.

Pansy began again shakily. Well, we were .. Don't even recount it, Draco hissed murderously. Merlin, woman, I thought you had fucking _standards. _How could you ..Draco, it isn't like it seems, I mean, we ..... blow some disgusting Ravenclaw prat for a few Potions essays?... ehh, Pansy said, her mouth snapping shut.

I know you're failing, but frankly, that is disgusting, Draco snapped, his voice lowering now to a volume that only the two of them could discern. I forbid it, Panse. Fucking hell, come to me for help from now on. Disgusting .. what were you _thinking?_Heh, heh, oh you know me, desperate me, Pansy laughed. Draco, it's really .. sweet of you to offer your services, I mean, I really ..Yes, yes, Draco said dismissively, picking up a small blueberry scone and biting off a tiny niche of it. That's what .. friends are used for, aren't they? Sleep with someone with a little more brawn than brains from now on.

Pansy smiled slightly, wrapping her arm around his thin shoulders.

she said sardonically, leaning her head into his shoulder. Draco immediately shoved her off, giving her an intense glare. She removed her arm just as quickly as she'd swung it around him, giggling.

Shut the hell up and eat something, Panse, or I'll change my mind, he snapped, returning to his scone. Pansy nodded compliantly.

_Ahh,' _she thought to herself. _First step, secure. Soon, love, you'll be blowing someone yourself. Someone with everything you need to be happy in life ... I'm too good to you, Draco dear.'_

Contentedly, she reached for a blueberry scone herself.

**Ms. Rose:** So, darling, why don't you tell us all what you got for Christmas?

**Harry: **Yeah, Draco. Tell us all what a load you got from me... and Rose.

**Draco: **What is this, some kind of television interview? Sod off!

**Ms. Rose:** Oh, come now, amuse our readers!

**Draco:** Hmm .. very well, I'll reveal your perverse nature. From Rose, I received a sodding plastic tub of imitation whipped cream and two new black leather belts .. and from Harry ... nothing ...

**Ms. Rose: ** You didn't get anything from him? Harry!

**Harry: **We talked about this before, Rose ..

**Ms. Rose: ** Oh yes .. right then .. hehe. Well, Draco honey, if you hated the whipped cream so much, I'm gonna put a little on my pie .. oh, did you want some?

**Draco: ** I hate pie.

**Harry: ** I never did like cherry pie myself ... always preferred banana cream ...

**Ms. Rose: ** What? Hey, guys, the whipped cream is gone! 

**Draco: **Strange ...

**Harry: **I'll go out and buy a few dozen more.

**Draco: **We're hostages, fucktard. You can't just go out _shopping ..._

**Ms. Rose: ** Oh, okay, Harry love, here's a twenty ...

**Harry: ** Much thanks, Rose!

**Ms. Rose: ** No problem!

**Draco: ** WHAT?! No, wait .. I NEED TO PURCHASE SOME MUGGLE FOOD AS WELL!

**Ms. Rose: **I think we'll let Harry stick to all the shopping for now, cupcake.

**Draco: **Fucking hell ... Harry, while you're out, get some stamps ..

**Harry: **Whipped cream, stamps, K-9, right ...

**Draco: **You're going to purchase a _dog_?

**Harry: **What? I didn't say anything .. see you soon, Draco.

**Draco: **Bring home some arsenic as well.

**Ms. Rose: **Oh, you silly dear! That's right in the cabinet.

**Draco: ** Dare I ask for what purpose?

**Ms. Rose: ** Oh, you know ... ex-lovers, rapists, bad reviewers ...

**Draco: **I may have underestimated you ...


	26. Let's Be Friends, Sucker

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: Damn, this was fast.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Wednesday morning _in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to handshaking

Harry could not think of a day when he had felt more exhausted. Though he tried painfully hard to distract himself all through breakfast, both with food and distant conversations with Ron and Hermione, he simply could not shake the feeling that something had to be done. He imagined that it were the feeling one had when one refused to fulfill a prophecy, and the fates came after you, pressing down into your mind until you went mad from the denial of it.

It make no sense, he thought as he trudged silently with Ron and Hermione toward the dungeons. If it had been anything else, something that added up, he could have handled it. Had Malfoy wanted to kill him, he could have handled it - that made sense, Malfoy was in line to become a Death Eater and he had hated him all of this time, of course he would want him dead. It was the actual thing Malfoy had confessed to wanting that was slowly driving him, now, into a state of restless, pensive denial.

It was so simple to pretend it was a lie when it made such little sense.

Though he hadn't had time to research yet, he felt sure that there was some way around Veritaserum, some Dark magic trick that Malfoy had been taught at some point to use if he were ever questioned. There was that possibility, and then there was the one in which he had misunderstood what Draco had been saying, which he had a bit more faith in. Attraction could mean anything, couldn't it?

After all, one could say that Voldemort himself was to Harry - he loathed him and planned to end his life, certainly an obsession as such could be considered an of sorts. Perhaps Malfoy had only been confessing to wanting him dead.

Though that thought, however simpler it was compared to the alternate possibilities, left him feeling hollow.

They entered the dank hallway leading down to Snape's dungeon, and it was here, from a distance, mingled within the crowd of traveling students, that he saw him. He saw the long sheet of Pansy's hair coupled with the bemused head of Blaise, and then, a few feet away from Pansy, he saw the back of Malfoy, his white-blonde hair swinging silently against his pale neck.

When they drew closer he saw that Pansy was grinning, a wide, brilliant and slightly frightening smile on her face. Blaise seemed to be looking around nervously, and Malfoy had his face tilted down toward the stone floor, his chin-length hair hiding it like a glowing curtain.

There he is, that git, Ron muttered loudly, picking up on the object of Harry's intent stare. He turned toward his friend, grinning and awaiting approval, only to hear Hermione tut disapprovingly next to him.

Be quiet, Ronald, she said hastily, glancing in Malfoy's direction as well. After all, you don't really _know_ Draco, do you? Ron spat, his eyebrow shooting upward. Since when is he _Draco_? You're off your nut, Mione, everyone knows he's got a family of black sheep. He is and always has been nothing but a miserable, cheating prat-

But Hermione swatted his arm just as he finished, giving him a nasty glare, and Ron sulkily closed his lips, reopening them with a new topic in mind.

Did you study much, Harry? he said instead, rolling his eyes - he was obviously not very much interested in the test that lay ahead of them. Harry made a noncommittal noise, his eyes widening silently.

Draco Malfoy was watching toward him, Pansy and Blaise following curiously in his wake.

Good morning, Potter, he said carelessly, stopping a few feet in front of him. Harry felt his jaw quiver slightly; always in the past, a good morning from Malfoy was as good as an invitation to insult him, always sardonic to the core, but this morning, his voice was level. He had no idea what to say.

At last, Hermione perked up, placing a polite smile on her face.

Good morning, Draco, she said brightly, who turned to her with his silver eyes widened in slight shock, momentarily distracted from Harry. His lips curled in distaste, and he stared at her blankly until she went on.

Did you study for the exam? she said, in the same cheerful, forced tone of voice. Draco continued to stare at her, dumbfounded, for a long moment, and then finally let out a hoarse Hermione said, her smile faltering just a bit. Really, now? You look so tired ... there are circles under your eyes, Draco. What were you doing if you weren't studying?

At this, a redness rose from under Draco's collar. He flashed his eyes briefly toward Harry, his lips twisting down into a scowl, and then back quickly to Hermione, an expression of slight horror on his face.

What are you on about, Granger?! he finally spat, the redness spreading to his cheeks. Hermione, who seemed to have been hoping for a polite response, let her lips twitch back up into the courteous grimace.

Just greeting another student with respect, she said loudly, turning to give a meaningful look to Ron only to find that he seemed to be far more flabbergasted than Draco - his jaw had dropped at her, and he looked a cross between shocked, furious and horribly confused. Hermione hmmph'd and looked away from him. 

Well, I'll let you get on with your private word to Harry, she snapped quickly to Draco, and turning to her friend, added, Don't worry, we'll save you a seat. You have the time.

With that, she grabbed Ron's sleeve and dragged him, still mortified, toward the dungeon door.

It slammed shut, and Harry suddenly realized that the other students had filed in before them as well, and that the hall was empty and very, very quiet.

Draco was staring at him, obviously uncomfortable. It seemed to Harry that Draco had, upon approaching him, only wanted a familiar verbal spare, an insult to break the fresh layers of ice between them. Unfortunately, Hermione's considerate conversation had ruined the moment. Now the blonde shoved his hands into his pockets, his face sulky and slightly infuriated at this mistake.

For his part, Harry felt his cheeks redden, as ridiculous as it was. They had both been robbed of their comfortable insults.

Harry said finally, clearing his throat. What _were_ you up all night for?

Draco's silver eyes flashed, and he gave him a purely murderous look before spinning on his heel, storming into the dungeon and slamming the heavy door loudly behind himself.

Harry, watching him go, felt some tiny part of himself briefly sink with disappoint.

Harry could not focus at all on his exam. Every time he lowered his quill, images of Draco's contemptuous, almost betrayed look flashed across the back of his eyes, followed quickly by snippets of Hermione's sugared voice: _Did you study for the exam? You look so tired ... get on with your private word to Harry ..._

As ironic as it was, Hermione's completely random display of courtesy toward someone who had called her a Mudblood for the past five years (he still couldn't understand it, but assumed it had something to do with showing up Ron) had given him a very strange and uncomfortable idea.

Perhaps when he had said that he was attracted to him, he had really meant that he ... that he wanted to be _friends_ with him. 

It was possible, wasn't it? After all, Malfoy couldn't have meant ... well, what he would have assumed had someone like Cho said that ... and this new idea didn't give him the sinking feeling that the idea of Malfoy hating him did. This interpretation, it seemed, fit in many ways.

He had to at least give the idea some thought, he reasoned. The idea of talking to Malfoy politely in the hall seemed very possible, as Hermione had just demonstrated it for him. But eating with him at breakfast? Chatting happily over Quidditch? Sipping butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks? A playful game of chess?

All the normal things he did with Ron and Hermione seemed slightly ridiculous when their images were replaced with Malfoy, especially as in his imagination he had to make the normally surly boy laugh, smile and talk cheerfully. Harry was doubtful that this was what Malfoy wanted.

But meetings to study in the secret room ...

Harry admitted that he could handle that.

He leaned back in his chair, slightly pleased with himself now that he had worked this all through. He grinned a little, letting his mind relax ... and decided to amuse himself with an imaginative skit of their future friendship.

_Let's go inside, Harry! said an overly zealous, smiling Draco Malfoy. _He was dressed in a black mink cloak with his hands buried into a furry pouf, an image which made the real Harry snigger.

_Sure, Mal... Draco, said the hypothetical-Harry. _Harry let his lips twitch; he'd messed up his own made-up fantasy. 

_Draco removed a hand from his pouf in order to pull open the heavy door of Honeydukes, revealing the sweet-smelling air and pleasant heat of the huge candy store. He disappeared inside, holding open the door for Harry. Moments later they were browsing the store side-by-side, laughing at all the oddities they found and occasionally picking up items to buy._

I'll take care of this, Harry, said the pretend-Draco happily, pulling out a huge sack of gold. Draco was rich, wasn't he? __

Okay then, said the dream-Harry. He watched as Draco paid, and then the two walked out of the store together. Big, white snowflakes fell slowly around them.

These are yours, Draco said, handing him a bag. And these are mine. He smiled as he held up a small, but stuffed, bag. I'm going to try one now, okay?

The dream-Harry nodded, and Draco opened the bag only to pull out a large, round cherry-red lollipop. He peeled the wrapping from it slowly, his eyes flashing mischievously at Harry.

Watch this, Harry, he said quietly, and then he slipped the red lollipop between his pale lips, sucking on it slowly. Harry caught small glimpses of his flicking pink tongue as he slid the lollipop in, then out, then back in again.

The dream-Harry faded away, and suddenly he was watching through his own eyes as Draco slid the lollipop into his mouth further, he thought, than most people would have a mind to. His silver eyes blinked and finally closed, the snowflakes settling into his hair and eyelashes as he went on, pulling the candy over his red-stained lips, his cheeks flushed from his cold, opening his mouth wider to let it slip in further, his lips sliding tightly over ...

... Potter!

Harry blinked, startled, as he snapped back into reality. 

he said dumbly, suddenly realizing that he was in potions, taking his test, and that Snape's beady black eyes were locked on him from the lower end of the classroom. He swallowed hard, flushing as he realized that all around him, students were filing out the doors.

The exam is over, Potter, Snape spat. He hesitated, clearly debating in his mind whether he wanted to give Harry detention or force him out of his classroom immediately. Apparently, he decided on the latter. 

Get on with it! Snape hissed, tapping his fingers impatiently against his desk. Harry stood clumsily, gathering up his bookbag and carrying the test to Snape's desk. He snatched it rudely, staring down menacingly at his student.

You may go, Snape said icily. Harry nodded, his mind still in a confused rush, and turned around to do just that before an idea struck him. To his teacher's disgust, he turned back around a moment later, opening his mouth immediately.

Professor Snape, I have a question, Harry said hurriedly, before Snape could command him to leave. Is there any way to escape the effects of Veritaserum? I mean ...Of course there isn't, Potter, Snape snapped. That's why we use it in criminal investigations, we wouldn't if there were ways around it. Now if you-Not even dark magic? Harry added suddenly. Snape's scowl darkened, his pale face growing steadily more flushed. 

No, Potter, there is no way around it, Snape spat out in disgust. He paused, then, suddenly, as something seemed to strike him. You know, Potter .. I had a bottle of Veritaserum stolen just a few days ago ...

Bad idea to ask him, bad, bad, terrible idea.

Oh .. really? Harry breathed. Snape nodded gravely, the look on his face reminiscent of someone longing to reach out and strangle your throat. 

That's a pity, he said, swallowing hard to control the shaking in his voice. Well, I'm sure that you're very busy, Professor, thank you ...

Harry grimaced and then turned, walking quickly up the stairs toward the doors. He let his breath out in a long sigh as he shut them safely behind him, his hands shaking slightly from nervousness. If Snape ever found evidence of that ...

But that wasn't the point right now, was it? The more pressing issue here now was that Malfoy had, whatever he had meant, been speaking the absolute truth.

Harry knew, suddenly, what it was he had to do. He looked down the hallway to his left - Hermione and Ron had already left, and he couldn't blame them, as he knew how Hermione loathed being late for any class. He looked up the hall directly in front of him, hoping ...

And then he saw them, nearly rounding the corner up ahead. The sleek silhouette of Draco Malfoy, his hair a shifting silver ball, surrounded by his two friends.

Harry paused for a second, then ran, his bag swinging at his side, after them.

he called loudly, panting. Wait ... hey ... Malfoy!

He watched as Draco, several yards ahead of him, suddenly froze only to turn around slowly, cautiously, a moment later. Pansy and Blaise had stopped at their friend's side. Before he knew it, Harry had gained on them, and stopped in front of Malfoy, his breath coming in short gasps.

Can I .. have .. a word? he asked quickly. Next to Malfoy, Pansy grinned widely, nodding vigorously as Draco's lips dropped down into a deep frown. She pulled Blaise aside and dragged him, quite cheerfully, around the corner.

Malfoy stated, his voice cold, but beneath that, slightly puzzled.

Harry said awkwardly. He wasn't sure at all how he would voice this - any way he put it, it sounded terribly pathetic - but it was now inevitable. He only hoped that Malfoy would hear him out. Listen ... said Malfoy, frowning unsteadily.

Harry began, his voice shaking, I thought about this a lot, and I was ... wondering. I mean, if you'd like ...Spit it out, Potter, Malfoy whispered.

Let's be .. friends, Harry said, spitting out the final word as quickly as possible. He opened his mouth to amend this, but then closed it, deciding to hold his rambling tongue until Malfoy had properly reacted.

He didn't. He stood there, his sharp silver eyes widening and then suddenly narrowing, glaring at him suspiciously. Slowly, Harry extended his hand.

Harry offered.

Malfoy continued to stare at him, obviously incredulous. It wasn't until after thirty long seconds had passed that he offered his pale, manicured hand in return.

he said quietly, wrapping his fingers around those of Harry. 

Though he could not describe it properly in words, Harry felt at that moment, as Malfoy's hand folded into his, that the nagging guilt of the fates had vanished.

**Draco: **What the hell? Friends? FRIENDS? I would NEVER ---

**Ms. Rose: **Oh look! Harry's home! Welcome back, dearie!

**Draco: ** ... Harry? Hey! Did you get the stamps?!

**Harry:** Yeah yeah, hear you go - hands stamps to Draco - and Rose, could you help me put these whipped cream tubs in the fridge, I could really use a --

**Draco: **AHAHAHA, foolish Rose! I am now in possession of my key to FREEDOM, the vital tool needed for Muggle communication processes! I will now secure my rescue from this scathing rot of hell!

**Harry: **Oh, oops .. I don't think those are international.

**Draco: **... international?

**Harry: **You need a different kind of stamp. Those are only good for use in the United States.

**Draco: **WHAT?! But I haven't got the address of the American Ministry!

**Harry: **Sorry, love ... I'll pick some up the next time I go shopping.

**Draco: **When will that be? Tomorrow?

**Ms. Rose:** Oh no, I'd say that this supply of whipped cream should last you two at least ... five weeks!

**Draco: **... death is always an option.

**Ms. Rose:** Don't be silly, pet, no one with a great sex life wants to snuff themselves.

**Draco: **... I think I need some time alone.

**Harry: **Coming!


	27. An Offer He Can't Refuse

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: I like this chapter, oddly enough. It's a good chapter, it gives me some hope for the next one, which should hopefully be even more... entertaining. I've been pretty depressed lately .. hard times .. but at least you all can still have your H&D fix. Aren't we all just waiting and waiting for that happy ending, even when the chapters are long and difficult? Ahh, I'm so clever.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Wednesday evening _in the story.

This chapter is dedicated to never, never giving up on love

Draco slammed his door with so much force that it rattled, the wood seemingly on the verge of shattering apart. Next to it, Pansy winced as air blew her curtain of hair to the side, her lips twisted into a sarcastic frown. Blaise coughed uncomfortably into his hand.

Just who the _fuck_ does he think he is? Draco screamed, throwing his hands into the air. He paused just long enough to grab the strap of his bag and swing it ten feet across the room, where it hit the wall and slid down to the floor, before throwing himself face-down on the bed. He curled his fingers tightly into his pillows, grumbling incoherently.

Oh, sweet, Pansy said sympatheticly, coming up behind him to stand proudly at his bedside. She pat his tousled hair ackwardly, ignoring the growling that suddenly errupted from the face in the pillows. This isn't really so bad.

Draco mumbled something angrily about this, and Pansy swore she heard the word along with a few other choice obsenities. She smoothed his hair more insistantly now, tuttering her disapproval.

Yeah, I mean, Blaise began hesitantly. Friends with Potter. That could be useful to us, couldn't it?Shut up, Blaise, Pansy snapped ruefully. She sat down, now, on Draco's bed, turning her hair-patting into a calming shoulder massage. Mumbling could still be heard from the pillows, but it was less furious now.

Let's not be angry, precious, she began carefully, pressing her fingers expertly down into the base of his throat. We shouldn't over-react until we've properly analyzed just why Potter has done this. Now, I know that you and Potter had a bit of a fight-

Draco turned his head so that he faced the room once again, his eyes narrow slits beneath his tangled hair.

We didn't fight, he said lowly. His eyes glinted from Pansy to Blaise, who coughed once again. he said, jerking his head toward the latter, Leave, _now_.

Blaise nodded, looking a bit grateful as he slipped out the door. Pansy, still at his bedside, was grinning widely, excited at the confession she knew was coming.

Didn't you? But you came home so infuriated that nightIf you tell anyone, I'll murder you in your sleep, Draco whispered harshly. Pansy nodded eagerly, learning forward to hear the low murmuring of his enraged voice. Potter ...What did he do? Pansy asked excitedly.

Shut up! Draco snapped. His lips twisted into a scowl, and he rolled his eyes, pulling himself up on his elbows. His hair hung low over his face, obscuring it behind the white silk curtain. Potter brought Veritaserum to one of our meetings. He shoved it down my throat and I said that I ...Oh Merlin, Pansy gasped, covering her shocked, paling face with her hand. You told him that you're madly in love with him and want to be his boyfriend, that you want to get him in your bed and ravage his- Draco nearly screamed, and Pansy closed her lips obediantly. No, sodding hell, god no. I don't want to .. boyfriend .. no.All right, fine, Pansy amended quickly. So what _did _you say, then?That I was attracted to him.

Pansy grimanced at this, clearly torn between breaking out into a huge smile and frowning, as would be appropriate in pleasing Draco. The end result was a twitching tilt of her lips, her eyes flashing happily.

she said finally, clearing her throat of all emotion, That's a little vauge, but oddly to the point. How did Potter react?He thought I was joking, Draco spat bitterly. He settled himself back down, sulking into the pillows once again. He let the fingers of one hand curl tightly into his silk pillowcase, straining the delicate fabric.

What do you mean, joking? Pansy said, turning her nose up into the air and scowling. You can't tell a _joke_ when you're under Veritaserum, the most you can do is answer questions like an inhumanly honest zombie, everyone knows that you can't-Well he did, Draco growled. He kept screaming at me to drop the act, and when I didn't he took a good five minutes telling me how deeply he hated me and why. Pansy said, her lips pulling into a puzzled frown. And now-After a few days of ignoring me completely, Draco mumbled.

He wants to be _friends? _she finished, bringing a hand up to her hip and rolling her eyes. You know, darling, that makes no sodding sense. If he loathes you so much then why the hell would he-How the fuck would I know? the blonde snapped. You're the one who wanted to analyze Potter. Stop rambling and get to it.

Pansy's frown deepened, and she adverted her eyes to the ceiling, sighing heavily before returning them to her friend. By this point Draco had turned his face back into the pillow, obscuring his expression, his body strangely still.

Right then, she began quietly. Well. It's obvious that Potter is trying to solve the situation somehow, well, you know, not really solve it, just make it easy on himself. You'd think that wanting to become your friend would make everything ten times as confusing, but maybe to Potter, it means demoting you from being a person he's obsessed with, if only through anger and hate, to someone he feels nothing toward. Draco sneered, his voice muffled by the pillows. I'll send him some every-flavor beans at Christmas, then, and we can call it a life.

Pansy sighed, patting his shoulder lightly.

Well, if that's what you really want to do, sweet cake.

There was a long pause then, one in which she compulsively smoothed the back of his robes and he laid still, breathing slowly in and out until finally, in one sudden movement, he swept himself up and turned to face her.

Of course, he began, his words trembling slightly from both anger and hesitation, That's not what I want to do. You know what I want to do, Pansy? I want to march into Gryffindor Tower, shove him against the wall, punch his face in and then shove a leather-bound copy of _Straight Days, Queer Nights: A Helpful Guide for Wizards Still Closeted _up his tight little ass.

Pansy blinked, staring at him with wide, stunned eyes until, after another long moment, her face broke into a bright smile.

You still have that, darling? she said proudly, beaming. Did you read it? The man at the bookstore said that-I obviously loved it if I'm willing to shove it up Potter's bum, Draco scowled, narrowing his eyes warningly.

Pansy ignored him, sighing happily and clutching at her chest. She continued to smile, looking down at Draco as though she were looking at a child who had just said his first word.

And by the way, dear, what you said about Potter's arse, she began quickly, her smiling turning suddenly devilish, Did you mean tight in a psychological sense or tight as in ...I meant he's being a jerk-off, yes, Draco hissed, drawing himself up and glaring at her, his cheeks burning.

Do you mean a jerk-off as in a jerk or as in someone you'd like to... he barked, baring his white teeth as he crossed his arms, a sulk clearly returning to his features. Pansy laughed quietly before coughin in a sudden attempt to control herself, settling herself back onto his bed.

She grinned, patting his thigh consolingly.

You know, seriously, she began, holding back her glee, I don't know if punching him and forcing literature up his unmentionables would help things, but I do happen to agree with the first bit of what you intend to do.Ehrm, what was that, Draco mumbled, turning to look at her suspicously.

Storming the Gryffindor Tower! Pansy yelled, throwing a fist into the air cheerfully. She smiled as she lowered it, her eyes glowing with mischief. Because you know, darling, when has doing the exact opposite of what Potter wants ever been the wrong course of action?

Draco seemed to think about this, his nose wrinkling with mild interest.

You're saying that the thing Potter would hate the most would be me invading his space? he asked, eying Pansy with dark curiosity.

Pansy giggled, biting her lip as she leaned closer.

she whispered. I think the thing Potter would hate the most would be you following through with the whole handshake bullshit.You mean ...I mean that you and Potter need to be friends, she beamed, licking her lips happily. You need to be very, very good friends with Potter.

Harry glanced at the clock over the fireplace desperately, hoping to whatever gods there were that it was late enough to pretend he couldn't physically bear to go on with his work. He began to yawn very loudly just in case, but was crushed when he realized that it was just around seven-thirty, hardly a time for bed.

He sighed loudly instead.

Next to him, Ron frowned and crossed out something with his quill, nibbling distractedly on his bottom lip. Across from the two of them was Hermione, who was humming contently as she read her Transfiguration textbook, reviewing the current lesson before attempting the paper that was due in ten days.

He glanced again. Seven thirty-one.

He turned his eyes back down to his Potions essay. He'd written three sentences in approximately the last twenty-five minutes, and even those had been mostly copied from his textbook, and poorly paraphrased at that.

He began to trace over his last word with his quill. It seemed to him that the night would go on for an eternity, and all he wanted in the entire world was the chance to go up to bed, to sleep and continue on to the next day, to speed things up a little. After all, it wasn't as if any pleasing things were happening to him. The most he had were disturbing thoughts he was too edgy to even consider and the homework he couldn't focus on for a sodding second. He needed it to be eleven or so, because then he could yawn and say that ...

He blinked, his eyes lifting almost on their own at the sound of a commotion near the portrait hole. Several people near it were openly gaping, standing around it in a messy semi-circle that blocked most of the entrance from Harry's view, and the room was steadily filling with the buzz of excited chatter. Somewhere, he distinctly heard a book fall to the floor.

What is it? Hermione asked, turning toward the portrait hole and frowning. Ron glanced up as well, distracted, his eyes wide but blank.

he asked, but at that exact moment, the small crowd cleared aside, and Harry's jaw fell weakly open.

Thank you, Draco announced loudly, dumping the struggling first year he'd been carrying around by the collar unceremoniously onto a large, overstuffed armchair. He quivered, looking up at the blonde in horror. I would have never guessed that password without your assistance.

The boy didn't have time to respond, because already he had turned away from him, his silver eyes locked on Harry as he began to walk brazenly toward their table, his long Slytherin-crested robes billowing conspiciously behind him.

Harry dropped his quill, his jaw still embarrassingly slack because ...

_What the sodding hell was he doing here?  
What the bleeding hell did he want and why,  
Why was smiling like that?_

Draco smirked down at Harry, who decided immediately that it was very creepy, setting his mouth into a strict frown as best he could.

Why are you here, Malfoy, he began shakily, torn between the familiar bitter insults of the past and the friendship he knew he'd stupidly promised.

Draco began dramaticly, drawing himself up to full height and shifting the books under his arm into full view, Pansy has fallen ill, unfortunately, and has taken to bed, and Blaise, well, Blaise is a moron.That's unfortunate, Harry answered rigidly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ron tense, glancing between himself and Malfoy eagerly, waiting for the argument to occur. Hermione had quietly closed her book. But what does it have to do with you being here?Well, you see, the blonde spoke silkily, bending down to lock his eyes into his, They're my only _real _Slytherin friends, and now, I have no one to help me with my Transfiguration homework. Harry began, but Ron beat him to it, scowling at the boy before him.

See McGonagall if you're too dumb to get the lesson, Malfoy, he spat, glaring daggers at his long-time enemy. Draco, for his part, smiled grimly.

Why see a teacher when I could just as easily come here, he began languidly, And be helped by you, Harry?

Harry swallowed hard. He wasn't sure what Malfoy was trying to pull, but he was suddenly regretting his decision not to inform Ron and Hermione about his choice to call a truce between himself and Malfoy. 

Why would Harry want to help _you_? Ron spat, and inwardly Harry felt the panic rising. Draco was going to tell them now - oh sodding hell, this would be very difficult to explain.

Why, because, Ronald, Draco smiled, his expression brightening as he viewed the shock that suddenly froze the green-eyed boy's face, Harry and I are friends now. Aren't we, Harry?Malfoy ... Harry began warningly, but he knew it was too late.

We made the truce just today, after Potions, Draco explained cheerfully, much too cheerfully, to Ron and Hermione. She raised her eyebrows critically, while Ron looked just short of vomiting over his parchment.

Really then, Hermione offered at most, her voice a curious, but shocked none the less, whisper. Ron was growing steadily pink in the ears, his quill shaking in his hands.

You can't be serious! he snapped suddenly, turning his eyes frantically from Harry to Draco, then back to Harry again. The brunette flushed, frowning and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Jokes can wait until after our homework, Draco announced dryly, a wicked smile on his face as he dumped his bookbag unceremonioiusly on the floor next to Harry's chair. He _Accio'_d a chair from a nearby table, settling into it calmly.

Go back to your own House! Ron screeched, raising his quill like a drawn dagger, ready to strike.

So _Harry_, what I really didn't understand was this part, Draco began fluidly, snatching his book from his bag and letting it fall open to the appropriate page. Now, when I attempted to turn the parrot into a plate, the design of a parrot was imprinted onto it. Would that be considered an incomplete transformation? Harry frowned, staring at Draco with steadily-flowing apprehension.

Mine had simple gold trim, Hermione perked up suddenly. You should try the spell again, only with greater concentration, Draco.Why thank you, Hermione, the blonde said, smiling curtly and nodding in her direction. He turned the rueful expression on Harry, who was feeling suddenly ready to melt through his chair into a puddle on the floor.

He couldn't say anything. They were supposed to be friends, he'd started the damn thing - he couldn't argue against it. He couldn't order Draco to leave and still keep up the pact, but then again _this _was never supposed to be a part of it, he was never supposed to actually -

Why don't you drag your skinny ass back to where you belong? Ron mumbled heatedly, clenching his fists openly despite the dark glares Hermione was sending his way.

I'm not sure. Do you enjoy Quidditch, Ronald? Draco asked sweetly, twirling his quill absent-mindedly in his hand. Ron's face flooded with red, and he gritted his teeth, turning his face desperately to Harry for help.

Ehh, Malfoy, listen, he began meekly. It's getting late ...It's hardly eight o'clock, Hermione piped, pointed at the clock with narrowed eyes.

I apologize Harry, you must be very tired, the blonde spoke cordially. He bite his lip slightly as he turned to Harry, his smile a complete contrast to his polite voice. I've been so selfish, wanting help with _my _work when in reality, you struggle so much more with Potions. Let me help you with that essay so that you can go up to bed earlier.That really isn't necess-Let's see, what topic did you get? Oh, witch hazel, the blonde began immediately, bending over Harry's shoulder to read the scratchy title. He slid his chair toward the other boy, his smile twitching when Harry flinched as their arms brushed together.

Very common, he continued. Its uses are incrediby diverse. I would use the glossary in the back of the book as a basic guild, first of all ...I think I can handle this on my own, Malfoy, Harry muttered uncomfortably, feeling his blood begin to kindle. The blonde merely raised a sculpted eyebrow.

_He has such long eyelashes._

Hermione said from her side of the table, shaking her head slightly. Harry, you need all the help you can get. You're hanging on by a thread and you know it, and we all know that Draco excels in potions.Worthy praise from someone so accomplished herself, Draco grinned, flashing Harry a wicked smile, nearly malicious in the way that it screamed victory. Harry attempted to scowl in return, but it seemed to be much harder to do so when the blonde was hardly a foot away from his face.

he grunted instead.

Two hours later, the brunette was staring down at two feet of writing, the majority of it his own, though the entire length of it was littered with the blonde's red-ink And now we rewrite it, Draco snickered.

I really thought it was fine before you had to go and proof it .. Harry muttered in the same barely-controlled, intensely uncomfortable tone of voice he'd been using the entire evening with his enemy-turned-study-buddy. Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes.

he said airily. Snape would have used that chicken scratch to kindle a nice little cauldren fire.I doubt he'd give up the chance to return it to me with a glaring failing grade scralled cross the top, Harry grumpled, still staring at the red ink as though trying to burn it off the scroll.

Me either, Draco grinned. Just like I'd never miss the chance to comment on it.

Harry turned to him, his displeasure written across his face and ingrained deep in his narrowed eyes. Draco simply let his smile grow larger.

Ron said loudly, his voice edgy. Harry turned toward him gratefully, glad to escape the blonde's flickering, forboding grey eyes. His smile was still too strange, even after hours of subtle insult.

It's getting a bit late then, isn't it? he announced, jerking his head toward the clock. It read a good thirty seconds past ten o'clock.

Need your beauty sleep, Ronald? Draco asked mock-sweetly, stretching his neck lazily.

The Slytherins should be missing you by now, shouldn't they? the redhead growled. I'm sure some slutty girl is hanging out by your dormitory door, ready to cry.

Draco shrugged, smiling indulgently at this.

By now, after two hours of this, Harry had discovered the purpose of Draco's little game. Not only did he want to gloriously mock his offer of a truce (embarassing him greatly in the process), he wanted to invade his world and fill it with everything he wasn't comfortable having: namely a friendship with a boy he loathed.

Draco was trying to piss him off by being friendly. When he thought about it, it was easy to believe, coming from the devious blonde. Strange, creative, but easy to believe.

And certainly, he wasn't the only one capable of playing.

It is getting a little late, Hermione agreed after a few long seconds, closing her book slowly. We all need to be well-rested for our lessons tomorrow. Ron said gruffly. So, we'll just all go to our respective _House _dorms and call it a night, won't we?Are you done with your essay, Harry? Hermione asked, staring across at him curiously.

Ehrm, basically, Harry answered quietly. I only need to rewrite it.Oh, I see, she said, darting her eyes toward the blonde, who had settled back into his armchair with his hands placed lazily behind his head. It was really great of Draco to help you out like this. Harry said lowly, pursing his lips. Hermione glared at him, still glancing expectantly between himself and the Slytherin. After a long pause, Harry sighed under his breath.

Thanks Malfoy, he muttered.

Why, it's no problem, Harry, Draco drawled loudly, sitting back only to lean closer to the boy, flashing his pearly white teeth. Not for a friend like you. Harry spoke, his anger apparent under the surface of his words.

Well then, up to _bed_, Ron began loudly again, gathering up his things in a very conspicuous way. Harry began to do the same, followed shortly by the blonde next to him. A few minutes later, all were standing.

See you upstairs, Harry, Ron said jerkily, sending Draco a dark glare before disappearing up the staircase. 

Goodnight, Harry, Hermione spoke calmly. Goodnight, Hermione, the blonde nearly purred.

Night, Harry mumbled. She began her descent up the staircase, leaving the two boys awkwardly alone.

Fun working with you, Potter, Draco said, his eyes glowing with mirth. He shifted his bag on his shoulder, his smirk the perfect invitation to challenge the evening.

But cunningly, Harry would do no such thing.

It was, Harry began, throwing as much warmth into his voice as he could stand. I'm really grateful for your help. We should do this again soon.Oh, yes, we should, Draco replied deviously.

Harry said. Slowly, a wicked smile was blooming within his own features. So, Draco, how about a hug?

The blonde blinked, the smug smile vanishing like water into dirt.

he repeated, the emerging frown streaked with horrified surprise.

It's an embrace between friends, Harry smirked. He stepped forward, subtlely outstretching his arms toward the other boy, daring him to come closer and complete the unmentionable task.

I know that, Potter, Draco spat, his face paling. He darted his eyes between Harry's smug face and his open arms, his frown steadily deepening. He took in a long, deep breath, biting down on his bottom lip.

And then, in a few fluid steps, he came forward.

One of his hands slipped around Harry's waist, settling loosely on his lower back, and the other came up awkardly around his neck, brushing against the blade of his opposite shoulder. 

Suddenly, his senses were overwhelmed by the scent of Draco's white-blonde hair, the majority of which was pressed against his cheek and ear. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around the boy in the same way, though clumbsily, as neither Ron nor Hermione were very big on such actions.

He waited, still breathing in the scent of hair mixed with the general scent of the boy, a rich combination of perfumes and vanilla-cinnamon skin, until he felt the hand on his lower back press against it firmly, felt the silky hair shift.

He felt the moment during which they should have pulled apart pass, pressing his eyes shut tight as he waited desperately for it to come.

It was completely apparent to him, then, that they could not be friends.

Ms. Rose: Haven't done a cliffy in awhile.

Draco: Will this sad excuse for a ever end? It's not even sodding true.

Harry: I do love it when you use profanity.

Draco: I'm bored. Can't we just all get wasted?

Ms. Rose: It's been done.

Draco: Eat cheap mass-produce doughnuts?

Ms. Rose: Been there.

Harry: Sexual innuendo?

Ms. Rose: Yawn. I'm out of fun ideas, guys, sorry.

Harry: I know, we can have a mmmmmmphhh!

Ms. Rose: Draco! Let the boy speak!

Harry: Mmmrrrgrrph -gasp of air- what the hell?

Draco: No.

Harry: Yes, you sexy little party crasher.

Draco: No! We will NOT sink to this level.

Harry: We're bored and Rose is exhausted, the critics will understand.

Draco: Never.

Harry: Reviewer contest!

Draco: I refuse to condone this idiocy.

Harry: Whoever does the, ahh, most intersting thing gets, ahh, mention!

Draco: Ooo, mention. I bet they'd all die for that.

Ms. Rose: What's considered interesting?

Harry: Emailing us naked Drake fanarts.

Draco: WHAT!

Harry: Mmm.

Ms. Rose: Those horny fangirl organization letters were pretty sweet.

Draco: New contest. First person to send me arsenic gets mention!

Ms. Rose: You can't send arsenic over the Internet, sweet cake.

Draco: Damn it.

Harry: Awe, have a bloody sense of humor.

Ms. Rose: Plus I'm lonely and like getting mail. -sniff-

Draco: Oh, shove it. You can all shove it! Up your reviewing gay-loving asses!

Harry: I think your ass is just as gay-loving as any of theirs.

Draco: New contest. First person to mail us duct tape wins.

Ms. Rose: Ooo, kinky!

Harry: I made some brownies. Want some, Draco?

Draco: Please, let me die in my sleep. Just pass away quickly ...

Ms. Rose: Mmm, don't mind if I do. Chocolate is an aphrodasiac, Draco dear.

Draco: -walks away-

Harry: I'll get him later.

Ms. Rose: Okee doo.


	28. The Delusional Gay Sweater

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: I'm so slow with updates. Actually, what inspired me to finish this chapter tonight was a Google search ... I saw that my story was recommended on some fansites .. I was so flattered. ) I'm glad that I can bring people enjoyment with my stories. That's the best part, really, is knowing that I've made so many people smile with this.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Wednesday evening _in the story.

Dedicated to my biggest fan, Juu D

Harry held in his breath, inhaling unsteadily through his nose as he tried desperately to either make sense of the swell of panic in his chest or end the embrace, whichever happened to come first. The half silky, half scratchy feel of the blonde's hair swung against his cheek, and he felt, briefly, fingers pressing into his back, making waves in the fabric of his shirt ...

... he tried to think. When he had hugged Hermione, had she pulled her fingers against his clothing? Was that a typical aspect of a hug, was that _appropriate,_ was that even normal? Was it something important enough to even consider?

And then he moved, and suddenly his opposite cheek was brushing against skin instead of air. The curtain of pale silk had shifted to his nose, and was it ending? He felt the hand move again, pressing harder into his back and then...

He opened his mouth and suddenly, loudly, sneezed.

He felt a rush of clothing and hair move about him, and when he raised his head, he saw Draco in front of him, staring at him with wide, shocked grey eyes, his mouth half-open and curved downward.

What the hell, Potter? Malfoy blurted, though it seemed to Harry as though his speech was slower, more hesitant than usual, as though trying to recover from something deeply startling. 

he heard himself say pathetically. He could feel the blood flowing into his cheeks, but why was he blushing? He had no reason to blush. This was _Malfoy,_ he could vomit on him and still find some way to feel good about it, couldn't he? Yes, yes, he could. He would explain that. I mean, I .. your ..My what? Malfoy said bluntly, wrapping his arms compulsively around himself.

Well .. it was your fault! Harry suddenly exclaimed, taking a sudden step back. It was .. it was your hair that made me do it! It's .. it's .. long, you know! Malfoy said smugly, though he was still holding himself, oddly keeping his distance. Or maybe you have some disgusting, miserable illness that made you sneeze, and now I'm bound to catch it.I don't have an illness, Harry snapped ruefully.

Oh really? Malfoy sniffed. Well, _either way _I think I'll need to throw away this sweater. Burn it, perhaps .. oh! Is Weasley in any need of used, possibly contaminated hand-me-downs?

Harry stiffened, feeling his old anger burning new.

I'll ask, but I don't think that's his _type_ of sweater.What do you mean? the blonde said, frowning a bit, then perking up suddenly. Oh, I see. It's a bit expensive for him, isn't it? Everyone would know it was trashed by someone with a respectable income.That isn't what I mean! Harry seethed. I mean .. I don't think that Ron is .. gay!_Excuse_ me? Draco yelped, his grey eyes narrowing as his arms fell to his sides, his hands curling into fists.

It's a gay sweater! Harry repeated shrilly.

This is not a _gay sweater,_ Draco hissed, clutching protectively at his chest. This is an _expensive, _well-tailored _sweater_. I suppose I can't expect someone like you to be able to see the difference.I don't know, Malfoy. I think that article was right on the mark, Harry began heatedly. I mean, look at you. The sweaters, the nail-painting, the female best friend? All you need to complete the stereotype is some equally feminine guy to shag you!I am _not gay_, Potter, he spoke, his voice quivering with anger.

Well, I think you _are_ gay! Harry retaliated quickly.

In that case, I think you're gay as well, Potter! Malfoy yelped.

It doesn't matter, as your opinion means nothing to me! the brunette nearly screamed, his green eyes blazing unnaturally. I don't give a fuck what you think of me! Draco snapped, crossing his arms suddenly and giving Harry a bitter glare. In response, his target frowned cruelly, crossing his arms as well and locking narrowed eyes with the silver before him. For a long moment, neither moved, their stare unbroken. 

At last, Draco took in a deep breath, forgetting to exhale before the words spilled from his mouth.

Do you really think I'm homosexual, Potter? he mumbled, though harshly. He bit his lip slightly, uncrossing his arms in order to glance nervously at his fingernails.

Excuse me? came the cold response. The blonde quietly cleared his throat.

I _said_, he continued sourly, Do you honestly find me .. that .. you know?That what? Harry spat, drawing his arms closer, if possible, to his chest.

_Gay_, flaming _gay_! Draco exploded, taking a sudden step toward him as he threw out his arms. Merlin, Potter, are you completely incapable of following a conversation?

The brunette, still a safe distance away from him, snorted loudly.

You call this conversation? he scoffed, rolling his eyes obviously behind his glasses.

Anything involving speech without us attempting to murder one another is a conversation to me, Potter, Draco said irritably. He was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable in his own skin, torn between making a quick exit and staying around to strangle a few honest words out of Potter. The brunette seemed to be making the second option all the more tempting by putting up such an insufferable act. Who wouldn't want to throttle him when he looked like this, with his arms crossed so confidently? 

It made him want to give him a black eye, really. His stubbornness always had - but first, more important things. He would kill Potter later, once he had just one more inkling of truth to obsess over.

Potter said numbly in response. Draco pursed his lips, holding in a quick reply in the hopes that he might say more. After all, if Potter had said all that he had to say, he'd have gone up to bed, wouldn't he? He'd been dying to escape him all through the study session.

he grunted at last, defeated by the silence. Harry raised an eyebrow at him passively.

he mocked in return, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Oh, yes, he would have to kill him now. He'd attack him in just a few minutes - he had just a few more questions to ask. He'd get him after he got his answer.

Do you honestly find me homosexual, Potter? he began hurriedly, an explained passion flowing through his veins. Because I would take such an insult very seriously, you know. I might just have to set you on fire in bed or something for an insult like that.

He crossed him arms again, very pleased with himself to have asked in such a way as to still appear infuriated.

I see, Harry spoke dryly. Well, Malfoy, I assume what you're trying to say is that I don't know you well enough to judge.I .. ehrm .. Draco began. Just answer, damn you! And, therefore, Harry said slowly, each syllable rolling perfectly off his tongue, The only way I could really know is to ask. Are you gay, Malfoy?

Oh, fuck. He should have known not to ask Potter. There was a reason he loathed him after all, a very good reason, and that was that he always seemed to slip between his fingers, whether through his insults or anything else.

I .. he began shakily. He felt sickened again, as though some part of him had ventured into strange, forbidden territory. What the fuck was he thinking? Of course he wasn't! Potter always had to go and make everything so fucking complicated. Harry repeated, and for a second Draco saw his arms loosen and his eyes blink, but was a bit too panicked to truly notice.

he snapped defiantly. I mean .. yes! I mean .. fuck, no! No, I am not gay! I'm perfectly straight! Harry said, the corners of his mouth shifting, though whether into a smirk or frown Draco could not tell. Well, then. Okay. the blonde repeated, his voice a strained mix of desperation and fury. What do you mean, okay'? That's all you have to say to me?

Harry blinked, breathing in deeply and shrugging.

There are always moments in life in which you are shocked at your own stupidity. Draco, suddenly, was feeling this way, disgusted and confused. How had he allowed himself to get to this moment? He could feel the panic rising in his throat, yet somehow found it right to continue on the same unyielding path. He could always tell himself that there had been no turning back, anyhow.

Well, you know my sexuality now, Draco began, hearing the intensity of his own voice echo in his mind, the edge of it unusually cruel. Why don't you tell me yours?I don't think that's any of your concern, Malfoy, Harry spat noncommittally.

the blonde snapped. You should take a good look at yourself sometime, Potter. You may dress like the typical male slob, but you're curiously celibate for an adolescent.What is _that_ supposed to mean? Harry hissed. You have no way of knowing who I've dated!Let's face it, Potter, Draco mock-sighed. Your little failed experiment in Ravenclaw hardly constitutes your being a normal, wanton heterosexual.You have no right to talk about my relationship with--You have to try something to know for certain how much you really _don't_ like it, Potter, Draco continued, and suddenly, his old smirk was spreading again across his face, renewed. You fit the pattern. One pretty girl and then, suspiciously .. nothing.You sure know a lot about being gay, Harry replied quickly. At least, for someone so perfectly straight themselves.My sexuality is an unfortunate truth, isn't it, Potter? Draco grinned. If I were homosexual, you'd be in good company.More hugs, I suppose? Harry spoke sarcastically.

Just imagine all the places on my body, the blonde smiled, leaning slightly forward, That you could sneeze on.Oh .. fuck you, Malfoy! the brunette snapped. He narrowed his green eyes, looking close to rolling them again.

I think you should keep the sweater, Potter, Draco said brazenly, stepping forward and closing much of the space between them. He gripped it along its bottom, pulling it quickly over his torso and shaking his silky hair out once it slipped over his head. He shoved it forward, letting it dangle between them in one hand.

Harry eyed it with distaste, raising an eyebrow as he leveled his eyes with those of Draco.

For further exploration, the blonde grinned tactlessly.

We'll see, Malfoy, Harry said, shifting slightly so that their eyes met almost instantly, and the blonde saw that he was, beyond all things, smirking himself.

That wasn't right. Potter wasn't supposed to be smirking at this - he was supposed to be outraged and indignant and insulted, still standing five feet away from him with his arms firmly crossed. The panic sinking his stomach told him how wrong this was.

I'd have to throw it out anyway, he continued quickly. Better this than being burned in the Slytherin common room fire.

That did the trick. The smirk faded instantly, the green eyes darkening like clouds moving to block out an emerald sun. In turn, his stomach unclenched, his breath returning.

In that case, it might make Crookshank's litter box more comfortable, Harry snapped. He snatched the bundle from Draco's pale hand, holding it out at his side like a dripping piece of garbage. Good night, Malfoy.I .. ehrm .. he began, but Harry had already turned his back, was already fleeing up the stairs.

Fine, Potter, he said unhappily to himself. Good bloody night.

When Draco returned to his own dormitory room that night, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he shivered in the damp air, he found much to his displeasure that Pansy had waited up for him. She was seated on the floor, her back resting against the front of his door, books and half-written papers scattered around her in the narrow hallway.

He sighed deeply when he saw her, scoffing at her gentle snoring. With the fluidity of habit, he pricked his finger and pressed it into the door, walking through it and waiting for the pleasant sound of Pansy's head knocking against his floor as she fell backwards.

_Crack._

Ahhh! Ah .. mm .. ouch.Go to your own dormitory, Pansy, Draco spoke loudly. she said softly, blinking her eyes open and immediately recognizing Draco's decorated ceiling. Oh, mm .. darling! You're back, dearie.I mean it! she mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head sorely. That was a bit mean of you, you know, I was just waiting for you.You're edging into my personal business, the blonde hissed. You're just being a nosy gossip, now _get out_! I am _going to bed_!I'm a concerned friend, precious, Pansy corrected immediately, smirking despite her sleepy eyes. And you know I'm not going anywhere without knowing what happened with Potter.Let me tell you, it was _great_. We really hit it off, and then we went upstairs and made sweet love in the Weasel's bed, after we broke his from all the pounding.Ooo, kinky, the Weasel's bed, she purred. You know, this one time, I was in my parent's bedroom... Draco screamed. It was a joke, a fucking joke, now get out! _Nothing happened with Potter_!You don't get so worked up over nothing, precious, she reminded him, reaching her arms into the air and stretching tiredly.

I'm worked up over Potter, Draco mumbled loudly. He's nothing.Sure, darling, Pansy replied cunningly, standing and walking toward her friend, who had turned his back to her, resting his hands on the bed so that he stood hunched over, his hair hanging over his face. Come on now, sugar, we both know you want to talk about it. You always want to talk when you're so completely pissed off.I really just want to sleep, Panse.Just tell me what happened, dear, she insisted soothingly. Your best friend Panse will help you work it _all_ out.

Draco sighed loudly, resigning to the hand that began to make comforting circles on his back.

he began in an exhausted tone, I helped him with his Potions work, and then the other two went up to bed, and he stayed and forced me to hug him, and he sneezed on me and I called him a homosexual. And then I asked him if he found me to be truly gay, and he asked me if I were gay and I said I was straight but accused him of being gay and then took off my sweater and left it with him and ... oh god it's fucked up when you say it all together.Shhh, dear, Pansy said silkily. It'll all work out in the end, just you wait and see. Pansy will take care of everything for you, won't she? Draco purred. Whereas he had been holding himself up on his hands, they suddenly gave out, and he collapsed onto the top of the bed, breathing evenly and deeply.

Pansy continued making the large circles on his back, her voice even and nearly hypnotic.

Just relax, love. Potter is probably wanking off to that sweater right now, don't you think?Mm .. Potter .. gay .. Cwook .. snakes ..Yes, yes, that's right, Pansy spoke slowly. Just relax, darling .. let yourself go ..

Draco continued to breathe in deeply, his fingers curling into his bedspread. Pansy smiled as she looked down on him, shifting her wand from where she had been hiding it expertly under her hand, her fingertips aligned with the tip of the wand, to a more normal position. She made a gentle curve, and the rest of the blonde's body lifted from the floor, levitating over the bed. With another quick loop, his body dropped gently onto it.

Enjoy your last few nights of sleeping alone, precious, she said softly to herself, pocketing her wand and walking to the door.

Harry: The Quidditch match is only .. what? Three days away now?

Draco: I wouldn't get your hopes up, Potter. If Rose here has any sense as an she'll write me **in character** - meaning I'll find out about Pansy's plan and then kick her ass. And then laugh ... that would be a great ending, ehh?

Ms. Rose: Pssh! This story will never end.

Harry: I have a feeling that some people wouldn't mind that.

Draco: I bloody would! Waiting for this story to end is like waiting for your next party when you already have a damn hangover.

Harry: Parties are good things, Draco.

Draco: Yeah, until they make you pray to the porcelain gods - much like this story forces me to do!

Ms. Rose: Oh, hush. Twenty bucks says you'll print out the sex scene and hide it under your mattress along with all those dirty Quidditch magazines.

Harry: You're on!

Draco: Those are Harry's! Not mine! I would never associate myself with such perverse -

Ms. Rose: Why would Harry's possessions be in your bed, then?

Draco: Not in my bed .. under it.

Harry: I think it's more like both, actually.

Ms. Rose: As long as you all wash your own sheets ..


	29. Boys and Broomsticks

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: This is a really strange chapter, but I suppose that's what I get after leaving it rot for so long. I apologize for making you wait, and hope this gives you a good laugh. After all, we all deserve to be happy, especially those of us who appreciate such sexy images as Harry and Draco getting it on.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Thursday evening _in the story (by the end).

This chapter is dedicated to good boys

It was an absurd notion, really.

Harry threw the sweater aside carelessly, watching as it landed softly on the end of his bed with annoying grace. One bed over, Ron sat up with crossed arms, his legs already hidden underneath the sheets.

I heard you fighting, he said in a tense voice. Prick, that's what he is.Yeah, I realize that, Ron, Harry sighed. He pulled roughly at his black robes, tugging them quickly over his shoulders. He was eager to get into bed himself, eager to end the day.

Calling you gay, Ron continued, narrowing his eyes at the thought. The bloody nerve of him, when he's such an obvious sissy himself. It was in the _Daily Prophet_ .. that prat .. you should've hexed him, Harry!That would've only kept him around longer, the brunette answered distractedly. He was already buttoning down his pajamas, blinking dully at the floor.

It would've been perfect though, mate, no teachers around to stop you, Ron ranted on. You could have gotten him good .. calling you gay and all .. I would have done that slug jinx .. yeah ..There's nothing wrong with being gay, Ron, Harry said tersely. Not bothering to brush his teeth, he stumbled into bed, pulling the sheets quickly up over his thin, yet muscular body.

Well, no, Ron said slowly, turning to Harry with slightly widened eyes. I suppose not. It's him accusing _you_ of being gay, Harry, that's the insult .. he meant it as a .. well, a bad thing, I guess. Bit hypocritical, really, if you think about it. Harry repeated, pressing his lips into a tight line. That sums it up about right.Yeah .. ahh .. you okay, Harry? he asked tentatively.

He turned his emerald eyes on Ron, sighing as he took in his worried look.

I'm fine, he answered quickly. I'm just a little irritated .. the fight .. and all .. with Malfoy ..It's okay, Ron perked up immediately. I understand, mate. He makes my blood boil too.

Harry tensed at that, his fingers curling into his bedsheets. He wasn't entirely sure that the blonde made his blood boil for quite the same reasons, but what did it matter? He had said himself, and quite proudly at that, how he fancied only girls.

We should just get to sleep, he said tiredly, lifting his hand to his face and removing his glasses. Practice is tomorrow.Right! Practice. Well, at least you'll have the chance to show him up in the game, ehh? the redhead smiled.

Harry replied listlessly. Just like always. Ron nodded. 'Night, Harry.Goodnight, Ron.

He waited for several long minutes, staring up into the darkness of his canopy. It was only when he heard the gentle snores of his best friend that he reached for the end of his bed, gripping the sweater in his hand and pulling it toward him. It was a miracle Ron hadn't spied it; he must have thrown it aside before he sat up.

Malfoy, despite slim-fitted, overly soft sweaters like this, was unquestionably straight. Though what difference did it make, anyhow? He was, as far as he was concerned, fairly straight as well - he didn't feel inclined to chase around any blokes.

_Or girls_, a voice in his mind whispered, but he ignored it fitfully. He'd been busy with schoolwork, with the threat of the Dark Lord - with playing these strange games with Malfoy.

He was, despite their mutual attempts to tear each open, still a mystery to Harry. Under the influence of truth serum, he had said things - about glancing at his body in the shower, and wanting to touch him - but he had been so angry then, he couldn't really remember _exactly _what he had said. He still wasn't sure that the blonde hadn't managed to thwart the potion.

And tonight, he had said with certainly that he was heterosexual. Harry could not get around that, and yet he had seemed, somehow, to be rather frightened, startled by the question. As if he'd had to take a few seconds to remember how to be a liar again.

Still, one thing was certain. Malfoy, whichever gender he lusted after, did not fancy him. At least, not on any kind of meaningful level - nothing beyond noticing that he had a decent body, or something like that. It was perfectly impossible.

Cautiously, he brought the sweater to his nose. He sniffed for the expensive perfumes Malfoy was known to wear, but he could find nothing more than an earthy, very human scent, like bland cinnamon with vanilla, and maybe something like lavender ...

He blinked sleepily. Malfoy smelled like a boy, a very warm, alluring sort of boy. The scent reminded him of all the times he'd leaned in close to Malfoy, during conversations and brawls and screaming matches, and perhaps unconsciously realized how delicious his skin smelled, circumstances regardless. 

He felt sleep drawing on his mind - the sweater - he could not be found with Malfoy's sweater inches from his open mouth. Clumsily, he shoved it beneath his pillow, but as he lay back down, he noticed that a sleeve still stuck out on his sheets.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He could not say that he minded.

/

Oh sunshine! an incredibly loud, high-pitched voice sang out.

He groaned, burying his head deeply in the pillow; some part of his mind reminded him that the dungeons had no sunshine, and that he should tell the unfortunate person waking him what a bloody moron they were.

Wake up, my sexy prince, the voice screeched again. It's another lovely day just bursting with opportunity! Tell me, love, did you dream of boys and broomsticks?

Draco swore under his breathe. He knew this venomous voice, but in his sleepy state it took him a good two seconds to sort out just what she meant by broomsticks and their riders.

Perverted witsh .. bitsh, he mumbled. He heard a far off giggle, and then suddenly he felt a pair of delicate hands ruffling his hair.

It's okay if you want to talk about just _which_ broomstick - I mean, boy - your dreams concerned, because it just so happens that I have him on my mind as well, the voice said happily. She withdrew her hands, which pleased him, until he felt his body jump an inch into the air. She'd thrown herself onto the bed.

Pansy lay on her back, her hair flowing around her face, her breasts heaving with enthusiasm.

It's too bad he's so obviously meant to shag you for the rest of your life, she said breathlessly, grinning up at no one. He is such a cutie, after all - pity we have to make him gay.

The blonde scowled deeply into his pillow. It was far too early in the morning to talk about Potter and his elusive sexuality.

He's straight, he mumbled harshly. He told me himself, and even if he wasn't, you know there would be no bloody way in hell that I would -Oh hush, darling, don't strain yourself trying to think, Pansy said quickly. Now, I've worked it all out. Despite the little tiff you had, about sweaters and homosexuality and whatever, well, that's quite fine. Friends always have little fights sometimes, don't they? I say you make up some load of rubbish about how sorry you are, and then invite yourself back to the Gryffindor fortress, and then - Draco said clearly. I have no desire -Insist on a sleepover party! she declared excitedly.

he growled loudly. A bloody sleepover, with the Weasel and Potter and all his other Slytherin-hating friends two days before we face off at Quidditch? Why, so that they can all gang rape me and cut out my tongue?While sex and tonguing may indeed be involved, Pansy grinned, no, precious, I don't think so. You'll want to keep up the friendly act, it's the only way you can get closer to Potter - And why would I want that? Draco asked stiffly.

Well, precious, she said matter-of-factly, We both know you're not stupid.

/

He'd dreamt about him.

It had been a strange dream, something that had thrown him back into the filthy bedroom of the broomcloset. Malfoy was there, and as if in slow motion he was pulling his dirty sweater again over his head. Slowly, his taut stomach was revealed, his pale chest, the curves of his bare shoulders and elegant neck ...

And then he was walking forward in a blur, reaching out a hand and pressing it hotly against his throat.

You look disgusted, Potter, the dream Malfoy whispered, Prove to me that you are. he had whispered back, realizing suddenly that somewhere along the way, he'd lost his shirt as well. Malfoy leaned in close to him, and he felt a moist heat surround him; his lips were at his ear.

Push me away, the dream Malfoy demanded silkily.

You're a liar, he stuttered instead, swallowing and tasting dust. You're trying to trick me.I told you the truth, the blonde said serenely. He felt his entire body lock as he leaned forward, taking his earlobe into his warm mouth for what seemed like just a fraction of a second. Now show me yours - push me away?

He swallowed again, this time tasting cinnamon and vanilla.

You're a liar, he repeated again, just before crushing his lips against his.

He'd woken up with a start, his mind part horrified and part pleasantly dazed. His body was covered in a thin layer of sweat - what the hell was that? Had he just dreamed about ... he shut his eyes tightly, trying to blur the images that floated to his mind. If he confused them well enough, he looked a little bit like Pansy with hair chopped short. It had to have been .. he couldn't have ..

He opened his eyes, throwing the covers aside. It was then he realized, a deeper level of shock filling him, that Malfoy's sweet-smelling sweater had somehow worked its way out of the pillow, and was laying thrown across his stomach.

He picked it up, about to stuff it again under his pillow when he saw it, just near the bottom - the tiniest of pale white stains.

He dropped the sweater again, shocked. Immediately, his mind began a mantra drilled into him from the start of adolescence concerning this subject - _it's perfectly normal, it's perfectly normal, with dreams you can't prevent it _- but a more current part of his mind knew that this absolutely was _not_ normal. Sleeping with your enemy's fluffy clothes and waking to find them defiled was most  
definitely not normal.

_It's all right_, he said to himself. _I'll just clean off the stain and forget this ever happened._

He rummaged for his wand, grasping it at last - but when he finally pointed it at the sweater, a new thought occurred to him.

If he cleansed the sweater, it would no longer smell like Malfoy.

He hesitated for a long moment, his wand hand trembling slightly, and then, almost in a frenzy, he grabbed the sweater, jumped out of bed, and threw it safely in his trunk.

He would skip the first part about cleaning, embrace the second, forgetting, and not give another thought to his reasons for not properly cleaning the sweater, as any sensible person would surely have done.

He looked around his dormitory; it was empty; it seemed that everyone had either gone to breakfast or was waiting for him in the common room, ready to start the day. He sighed, running a hand back through his unruly black hair. How could he face him now?

He changed quickly, cleansing his pajamas properly before putting them away, throwing them carelessly in the truck so as to avoid looking at the sweater. He tramped down the stairs, and seeing that Ron and Hermione were waiting, put on a brave face.

At least they didn't know. At least no one knew.

Breakfast went better than he had thought it would. Though he couldn't resist darting his eyes toward the House table of the sweater's owner, there were never a pair of narrowed gray eyes to greet him. Each time he looked, luckily, he supposed, Malfoy had his face down toward his food.

Pansy, however, waved at him cheerfully. Wasn't she supposed to be hating him for messing with Draco, he thought, but struggled it off.

Indeed, it was a lucky day for avoiding the stars of one's dirty dreams. Though he had two classes with Slytherin, both times Draco seemed to seat himself far away from him and leave quite early. There were a few moments when he saw the blonde glare at him, though his face seemed less than angry - curious, even. As if he were eying a target and deciding how best to approach it.

But he always turned away before Harry could meet his eyes.

And so it was that around seven thirty that evening, a stretch after dinner, he felt rather safe. He had escaped any form of contact with Malfoy, the dream seemed to have dissolved into slightly distant memory, and with his homework piled in front of him, he felt, in no way, shape or form, aroused whatsoever.

You can imagine, then, the cold shiver that went down his spine as he heard a familiar sort of commotion at the portrait hole.

Why, thank you, said Draco Malfoy grimly, a twisted smile on his face as he dumped the first year unceremoniously on the floor.

Harry felt the quill fall from his suddenly limp hand, making a tiny dabble of ink on his parchment. He watched as the blonde gathered himself, smoothing his black robes in a rather proper way, before walking toward him.

At first he slowly half-circled their table, a fox with its eyes lingering on the target, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. He finally settled in front of him, giving Hermione and Ron returning glares before speaking.

I've thought about our conversation last night, Harry, the blonde began, and Harry noticed that he seemed unable to restrain a look of uncertainty as he struggled to be sarcastic. And I've decided that I respect your heterosexuality, however sadly mundane it may make you.

With that, he pulled out a chair. Ron's face looked like a red balloon ready to implode at any moment.

Fancy the gay crowd, do you? he said nastily to Malfoy, who narrowed his eyes as though considering something philosophical.

In the vast ocean of human sexuality, dear Ron, he said, a note of pity in his voice. You are a fish out of water, thrashing helplessly under the sun of adolescent ignorance. Forgive me if I wondered whether Harry might have something more interesting up his sleeve. Ron sputtered. You're the same bloody age as us, Malfoy! And what are you trying to do, show off how much experience you've got shagging half the school? Proud of being the whore you are, then?I was merely commenting on my impression of you, said Malfoy, now smirking quite pleasantly, not insinuating a direct contrast.I think, perked Hermione, and Ron immediately turned to her, as though her words would be a saving grace, that sexuality is intriguing no matter the genders involved. We're all human, aren't we?Well said, Granger, well said, Malfoy purred. He raised his quill in a kind of toast, and Harry paused long enough to let his reaction to this absurd conversation sink in. He was shocked, first of all, how Malfoy had managed to commandeer his way into their common room and immediately engage his two best friends in a debate over sexuality so easily. He was curious - if Malfoy thought being gay was interesting, did that mean he favored it somehow, or was he merely mocking the idea?

And he was deeply comforted, somehow, by Hermione's words.

Ron was fuming, infuriated that Hermione had not spoken in his defense, but had rather chosen to say something with which Malfoy seemed to agree. 

Have you read many books on the subject, Granger? Malfoy asked, and though Harry detected just a hint of amusement in his voice, he sounded more at ease than anything. Any great Wizards been batting for the other team?Well, come to think of it, I've read of rumors concerning Salazaar Slytherin, she began strongly, but faltered when she saw that Malfoy's eyes were bulging. But they were just rumors, of course, there was hardly reliable documentation ... Malfoy mumbled to himself. Harry found himself watching him closely; was he disgusted, horrified? But generally, he seemed to look simply uncomfortable.

Aren't you a descendant, Malfoy? Ron perked up immediately.

Malfoy sent him a dangerous glare, and then dug into his bookbag, seemingly pretending that he had never heard the redhead.

I simply _must_ finish this Transfiguration essay tonight, he announced loudly, as if explaining the mystery of why he had pulled out a roll of parchment and an inkwell. He picked up his quill, and glancing briefly at Harry, began to write.

Hermione seemed quite content with this turn of events, and delved back into her textbook. Ron still looked livid, casting furious glares between Malfoy and Hermione, but had apparently decided that he would rather lose the chance to hex the blonde than be hexed by his friend for .

It was with this that a peaceful quiet fell. Harry could hardly believe it himself; his friends were allowing, however begrudgingly, the blonde's presence at their table. And more surprisingly, he didn't seem to mind much that he was seated next to him either.

Deciding that if it was safe enough for Hermione, it was safe enough for him, he pulled out his Potions notes. He was just beginning to scan the first list of ingredients when there was a sharp hiss next to him.

Sodding hell, Malfoy mumbled, and Harry saw that there was an inch-long cut on his left hand, a steady stream of blood flowing from his first finger. He heard more muffled cursing, and then watched as he raised the finger to his mouth.

Harry watched him suck on the finger for a long second, eyes bulging slightly, before the woman among them finally spoke.

Oh, dear, she said, not sounding the least bit concerned. Nasty cut, but easy enough to mend.

He glanced over to his other best friend; Ron was muttering under his breath, rambling on about sissies.

I think mending would work better than sucking, Malfoy, Harry said softly; it was meant to be a loud and sarcastic comment, but the blonde had looked toward him just he had begun. It was hard to speak with that image in front of him; Malfoy's pale gray eyes staring at him over his elegant finger, his lips pressed against his knuckle.

You'd be surprised how good some things can feel, he said, low enough so that only Harry could hear, that don't require magic at all.

The brunette swallowed hard - this was his dream talking, Malfoy was in no way insinuating anything at all sexual, anything at all concerning ... what he had just been administering to his lashed finger.

was all he could say, a gasp more than a word.

Will you mend it for me? Harry swooned again.

You there, Potter? the blonde in front of him smirked. Harry snapped his eyes open fully - what had he said? Certainly something less vague, a question, but what? His head seemed to be swimming, his stomach a little weak.

Harry blinked. The smirk on Malfoy's face visibly grew, and he licked his lips almost imperceptibly. He wondered if they still tasted a bit like blood.

I asked you if you would mend it for me, he repeated calmly. He brought his hand to his mouth again, sucking on the wound gently for a moment and pulling it away with a light smacking noise. It seemed like a meaningless kiss. It does hurt terribly.Mend it yourself, Malfoy, Ron snapped. Unless you can't remember such a simple spell?

But Harry was already pulling his wand from his pocket, a little afraid not to comply, afraid that he would be forced to watch more of Malfoy's strange pain-relieving techniques.

I can't mend it if you've got it stuck in your mouth, he said, again hoping for sarcasm and getting only a sheepish, almost shy comment.

Malfoy nodded slightly, and stretched out his pale hand toward him. Harry stared at it for a second, realizing that the cut was on the side of the finger farthest from him. Hesitant to give more instruction and be forced again into speech, he delicately took hold of Malfoy's palm, turning it toward him into a more accessible position.

He whispered the spell, watching as the cut healed itself immediately. When he looked up, his eyes unavoidably met those of the blonde; they seemed to be laughing, as though he knew something Harry did not.

Thank you, Potter, Malfoy said firmly.

No problem, Harry breathed. A long moment seemed to pass, and it was only several seconds later that he knew to let go of Malfoy's healed hand.

So, Harry, Ron announced loudly, and he turned to him, startled. Can we, ahh, look over your Potions notes together? I don't think mine were very good. Harry said, realizing suddenly that Hermione and Ron were both staring at him curiously, with looks opposite of what he had seen in Malfoy's eyes; as though _he_ knew something he hadn't bothered to tell _them_.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, though Harry noticed that his leg seemed to bump against that of Malfoy far more times that it ever had with his other two friends. The same went for elbows and twice, hands - but surely he was just imagining it. 

It was around nine-thirty when Hermione yawned and announced her departure to bed; Ron quickly snapped up, eager to escape the study session from hell, hell being Malfoy.

Right then, Harry, the redhead said loudly. You heard the girl! Time for bed, got to be well-rested for classes tomorrow. He was gathering his possessions in a horrible rush, throwing them into his bookbag as though the room were on fire.

Malfoy yawned quietly. In a few minutes, all of them were standing from the table. Hermione bid them goodnight and headed up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, and Ron made the first five steps of their own journey before turning back to glare at Harry, jerking his head toward the stairs.

Malfoy said suddenly, and the brunette froze, pursing his lips and turning toward him as though he were about to ask him to mend another injury.

he asked cautiously.

Might I ask a favor? he said, his lips slowly curving into a nearly convincing smile.

/

Harry: Hasn't it been something like three months since your last update?

Draco: And what merciful months they have been.

Ms. Rose: Well, yes, but ... no one gave up on me! A few people even wrote me e-mails! I could just cry from happiness.

Draco: I'm sure they're crying, too - or at least they will be, when they realize that an incredibly talented pureblood wizard is after their ass!

Ms. Rose: I know it's been way too long, but I've been busy .. finding an apartment for college, taking placement tests, working two jobs .. crying for two months over my goddamn ex-lover ...

Harry: We never really decided what hex we should use, did we?

Draco: Oh shut up, as if you'd know anything good. I say we make him ejaculate blood in place of normal fluids. Boiling blood - filled with acid!

Harry: How about _Sectumsempra _- for the genitalia?

Ms. Rose: Oh, guys ... I'm touched, I really am.

Draco: We could make him shit his own pygmy puff. Has he got one?

Harry: You mean a hamster? I don't think so - Rose told us he had two dogs.

Draco: Hmm .. we could shrink the dogs ... a little ...

Ms. Rose: I love you both so much, oh! Who wants waffles?

Harry: Mmm, waffles.

Draco: Wow, this sure beats working for Voldie. He never made us any bloody waffles.

Ms. Rose: Ooo! We should get our own special Dark Mark tattoos! We can get dragons that fly all over our sexy bodies --

Draco: Yeah, _we _could, muggle.

Ms. Rose: Oh, it'll be so much fun. First Ryan Frank Mento - then the world - of cheating low-lifes!

Harry: I can't think of a better way to use the Dark Arts.

Ms. Rose: Indeed!

Draco: Can I have strawberries on my waffles? I can't do instant sexual dysfunction on an empty stomach.


	30. The Boy Who Lived In Denial

**_- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -_**

Authoress Ramble: This was an ungodly fast update. The chapter has actually been done for a few days now, but I held off posting it so that everyone could get through the last chapter and let me know how they liked it. Thanks for your sweet reviews, I love you all. Cyanide and Raspberry Wine .. I think that's what s/he's called .. was especially nice .. thank you. I would like to write a novel one day, and I'm glad that you think so highly of my work. Thank you everyone! Enjoy the story.

Warnings: This story has been rated for repeated use of **_language_** and**_ sexual content_** (**_none now_**). Also, it is **_slash_**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

Disclaimer: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Thursday evening _in the story.

Yay slash!

What kind of favor? Harry asked cautiously. Ron had walked up behind him, he could hear the erractic, frustrated breathing on his neck. Draco smiled serenely at the pair of them.

It's Pansy, he began with a long, deep sigh. You see - she's my best friend - and this afternoon, she fell ill. Pomprey said it was contagious, and that she needed to evacuate her dormitory, but she didn't want to sleep all _alone _in that horrible infirmery-We're not visiting her, the redhead among them snapped immediately. Harry and I are very tired, you can visit her yourself, thank you, goodnight!

But Malfoy went on with the tragic story as though Ron had not said a word.

- and so I let her sleep in my private bedroom, where she can be surrounded by all her Slytherin friends. At home, if you will, he added. It was a great comfort to her.How sweet of you, Harry said slowly, narrowing his eyes with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

And now I have nowhere to sleep, Malfoy concluded miserably.

Are you implying that .. the brunette began slowly, but again, Ron put in his two knuts.

I'm sure Professor Snape could set up a nice cot for you in the Potions' closet, he said rather rudely. Or maybe Madame Pince would let you build a four-poster bed out of books for yourself in the library.It's so late to be disturbing our teachers, Malfoy said grimly.

Then perhaps you should've planned this out before barging in here and gracing us with your presense for two hours! Ron snapped, his cheeks flushing. And what do you mean, sick? I saw her at dinner!The infection struck incredibly fast, the blonde said with narrowed eyes, obviously becoming agitated.

Sleep in the Slytherin common room! yelped Ron, his hands drawing into fists.

I'll catch cold, you insensitive prat!You've lived in the dungeons _all your life_, and all the illness you've got for it is your ungodly pale skin! Mark us, Malfoy, we know you're up to something and we won't allow it! Right, Harry?

Harry looked uneasily between the two of them, somehow very hesitate to take Ron's side, although he quite agreed. The Slytherin common room was as appropriate a place for Malfoy to rest as he could imagine, and the idea of him camping out in Gryffindor Tower seemed simply ridiculous.

Ron's right, he said as firmly as he could. The Slytherin common room sounds like a fine solution.

The redheaded boy beamed proudly at this, and Malfoy scowled, biting his lower lip as he fought to come up with a good excuse.

Are you saying we're not friends, Potter? he murmured softly, trying his best to be offended. The brunette stared at him as though he had just suggested they share a pillow.

We're not close enough for a sleepover party yet, Malfoy, he said with as much venom as he could muster. He watched as his pale face flushed red, his throat pink behind his green and silver tie.

Are we friends or are we not friends, Potter? he hissed.

We're .. friends, Harry spoke, very guardedly, as though hoping Malfoy would accept this and walk away.

Then step aside! the blonde barked. He stormed through the pair of them, pushing Ron roughly aside. After catching his balance, he watched with infuriated eyes as he began to climb the stairs.

Stop where you are, Malfoy! he shouted, drawing his wand. If you don't leave now, we'll hex you into a thousand pieces!

The blonde, several yards away and his back facing them, raised and lowered his hand in a dismissive kind of gesture. They followed him hurriedly all the way to the dormitory, Ron screaming threats as he went and waiting eager for Harry to make the first move.

Yet his wand was still safely in his pocket as Malfoy threw open the door to the dormitory. Something in his mind made him stop - made him wonder why the other boy wanted to stay the night at all.

I'll need pajamas, Malfoy said bluntly. He pulled his black robe over his head, and Harry saw that he was wearing yet another sweater, this one made of a soft, thin grey fabric. It was quite form-fitting, and he found his eyes lingering unnecessairly on it and the accompanying black leather belt before Ron's ranting snapped him back into reality.

he nearly screamed. Malfoy, you've been _clearly_ uninvited! Leave! Now! Get out!Oh, shove it, would you, Weasel? he drawled. He turned to Harry then, looking over him curtly before asking, Is it all right with you that I stay? You haven't said much.You can sleep on the sofa by the fire, was all Harry could voice, hearing his words as though they were a faded melony issuing from a far off place. Ron stared at him increduously, looking ready to snap his wand into two and use the pieces to stab both Malfoy and his best friend through the heart.

What are you _doing_? Ron whispered to him when Malfoy had turned his back on them. You can't possibly want -I want to see what he's up to, Ron, he murmured in reply. Keep an eye on him, you know. If he tries anything, it's all right - he'll be surrounded by Gryfindors.Yes, but - the redhead began heatedly, only to be interuptted quite rudely by his dearly loathed enemy.

Which bed is yours? he said, obviously addressing Harry. This one?

Harry made a jerk of his head. He was just about to ask why Malfoy cared when the blonde walked up to it and waved his wand over the truck at its foot. The lid flew open with a loud bang.

Ron yelped, his mouth sinking into a scowl. What the hell are you doing in Harry's truck? Don't you dare touch - Malfoy, what are you -

Apparently, the blonde could not hear their requests. He rummaged in the truck for a few moments, long enough to find what he wanted, but short enough to avoid being stopped by its owner. He withdrew a large green and white flannel shirt, eying it with distaste.

He turned around, shrugging with the shirt in hand as though drawing attention to it.

he said simply. They'll do, thank you. I'm off to brush my teeth.

He smiled in an almost sinister way at Harry, who blanched, and gave Ron an intimidating sneer before turning and making his way toward the bathroom door. He would not complete the journey - in the corner near the bathroom sat an unexpected distraction.

Malfoy said, grinning in what Harry would guess was a genuine way. The famous Firebolt! I'm not sure what the rest of this rubbish is, and here he scoffed at Ron's Cleansweep 9005, but this ... gorgeous, and in perfect condition. You must care for it well. said Harry, unable to restrain the pride that swelled in his chest at this compliment. Hermione gave me a cleaning kit awhile back. I polish it every week. Malfoy murmured. He was clearly caught up in the broom. He stroked its glossy handle, admired the perfectly formed tail, fingered the gold logo. When he finally looked up, there was a curious, perhaps greedy look on his face.

Might I have a go, Potter? he asked sweetly.

A go on the Firebolt? Ron barked at him, quelling Harry's immediate response. Bloody hell you can't, that's Harry's finest, most treasured posession, you can't just take it out for a joyride! Tell him, Harry!It really is important to me, he said firmly. I'd rather you didn't.Did you let the Weasel - I mean, Ronald - here have a go? Malfoy asked.

Of course he did, I'm his best mate, Ron said stiffly.

Of course you did, he's your best mate, Malfoy mocked, sending the redhead a short glare before going on. And what about your lesser mates? What about that Irish bloke, and Dirk, or whoever?Dean and Seamus took it out, yeah, Harry said hesitantly, But I don't see what that has to do with ..You let all your friends ride your broomstick, am I correct? the blonde asked rather shrewdly. Am I right?I wouldn't say _all _my -And you said not five minutes ago that we were friends? he asked snappishly.

Yes, but that doesn't mean -You're a sensible man, Potter, he grinned. In an instant, he had pulled his wand from his pocket and slashed it at the window; it threw open immediately. He then threw his leg over the Firebolt (with surprising grace, Harry would mindfully comment) and in a moment had disappeared into the night.

Ron's jaw dropped at the fluttering curtains.

He's stolen your Firebolt! he screamed. Harry, that's the reason he wanted to stay the night - he wanted to get in here, in the dormitory, so that he could get his greedy little hands on it! I knew we should've hexed him on the stairs, I knew it! I'm going to wake McGonagall --No, Ron, said Harry quickly. He went to the corner and picked up Ron's Cleansweep, mounting it in one fluid motion. I'll go after him.

The redhead looked extremely hesitant. He paused, frowning, before nodding.

But if you're not back by two, I'm getting McGonagall, he said stiffly, a grave look on his face. You show him up, Harry. Hit him with a good one in my place.I'll do a slug-vomiting charm just for you, mate, Harry smiled briefly, before he too disappeared through the window and into the cold twilight air. 

He flew about twenty yards straight out from the tower, all the while scanning the grounds and skies for signs of Malfoy and the beloved broomstick that would be with him. He knew that he couldn't have gotten far. However, he also knew that a Cleansweep was a sad broom when compared to the Firebolt, and that if a chase insued, he was doomed to lose.

Over here, Potter! a familiar voice floated toward him.

Harry turned his head toward the sound, and was shocked to see Malfoy hovering, quite calmly, in midair.

Hungry for a bit of worthy competition? the boy yelled, and he saw behind him the shadowed, hulking form of the Quidditch stadium. His heart beat began to rise - a chance to kick Malfoy's haughty arse a little early - the idea brought a true smile to his face.

Harry screamed back. Whereabouts? Point him out to me! came the distant reply. Follow me, then!

And Harry did just that.

Malfoy finally began his descent toward a part of the grounds that he'd rarely visited, a rather overgrown field behind the castle and considerably far from the Quidditch pitch. He felt a little disappointed about this; he had hoped the blonde would challenge him in the arena. He felt comfortable there. Draco, after all, could not surprise him in that particular game.

But he'd chosen an abandoned stretch of grass, and down he flew, his touchdown as fluid as Harry had ever seen. His feet skimmed the green blades for two yards before he gently dug in his ankles, turning back to face him long before he stopped.

Been here much, Potter? he asked, his hair still floating around him in the wind he had created. 

Harry replied honestly. It's just a wretched little field.

He landed himself, the brown-green brush so high that it skimmed his knees.

Malfoy said, in a tone that Harry found almost bitter, injected with more feeling, at least, than his usually sardonic wit. Then the fact that you're here with me won't defile any old memories.

Harry pressed his lips together. Malfoy was acting strangely, and it was alerting his nerves. He felt suddenly defensive, although the blonde hadn't yet insulted anything. In fact, he seemed to have just insulted himself.

What's that supposed to mean? he asked stiffly. And unable to resist, he added, I thought we were flying out to the pitch for a quick go.It's too dark for Quidditch, he replied sensibly, and Harry realized that it was true. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only a thin band of greenish, glowing twilight behind. They would never be able to fight for a snitch in this kind of darkness.

That, and I needed an excuse to free myself from your bloody best mate', Malfoy continued. _Free _us_, more like, _he thought to himself, but held back. He dropped the Firebolt carelessly at his side and walked deeper into the field.

Be careful with that! Harry hissed, setting Ron's broomstick carefully near the prized broomstick and nearly jogging to catch up with him. Where in hell are you going? For a midnight stroll in some overgrown, abandoned field?I'm not forcing you to follow, Potter, he answered casually. He had tucked his hands into his pockets, his head tilted oddly up toward the sky. You can always just take your Firebolt and go.Not very Malfoy-like of you, tramping around in nature, Harry mumbled in response. It had to be a trap; there had to be something out here that Malfoy had planned. He had to have some dirty little trick up his sleeve.

When the blonde did not respond to this, he ranted on.

Where are we going? he loudly asked again, drawing his robes around his shoulders. It was beginning to feel very chilly. What's out here?Your choice, Potter, he only repeated, and they walked for a good five minutes in this aggravated silence until finally, Malfoy came to slow halt.

This will do, he murmured more to himself than his companion, and sat down in the grass, pulling his knees up to his chest. Hesitantly, Harry did the same, seating himself a good two feet away from the blonde for good measure.

What are we doing out here? he asked, finding this behavior in Malfoy utterly bizarre.

Seeing how much attention you've paid to Astronomy, he replied, and Harry saw in the nearly fallen darkness that he was smiling. It looked misplaced on him, like a smile on a stuffed cat when you knew full well that in reality, cats didn't smile.

In fact, with his white hair falling around his face, and his eyes glowing intensely, the smile was a little creepy. He didn't know what to make of it, and as he pondered what it should mean, he realized that he hadn't said a word.

Oh - Astronomy, he said suddenly. But .. what?

Malfoy pointed to the sky above them, as though singling out to a child an especially interesting, but otherwise common, reality. He looked up. Indeed, a flawless ocean of black stretched above them, dotted with thousands of tiny, pure white specks of light and clouded in the center by the Milky Way.

Go ahead, Potter, he said in an almost playful voice. Point me out a star.

Harry scrunched up his nose at this; this was perhaps the most pathetic challenge he'd ever received from his companion. He scoffed, but decided to comply, as ridiculous as it seemed.

Harry said, pointing a single finger up at the stars.

You just pointed at any of about five hundred stars, Malfoy said, his old sarcasm reviving, if only for the occassion. Which one exactly are you pointing out?Oh, sharp eye, the North Star, the blonde jeered, and Harry could swear he saw him smirking, though his face was heavily in shadow.

Well, what's the point of this, anyway? the brunette nearly snarled.

What's the point of playing Quidditch?It's entertaining! Harry snapped. He felt for a moment like jumping to his feet, but had a feeling that the blonde would stay contently seated, and as such resisted his anger-motivated instincts. It's the thrill of competition, the feel of a crowd cheering for you, leadership, teamwork, fun -Maybe I think this is fun, Malfoy interjected calmly.

You're off your rocker, then, Harry said, fully riled now. If you think sitting around in an overgrown field, staring up at the sky, is on par with catching the Snitch.You can't relax when you're chasing that bloody ball, Malfoy said tartly. He was staring up into the heavens, his eyes lost. You can't stop and think with it buzzing around your head.I relax enough in class, thank you, Harry said smartly.

You've just got to argue everything, don't you? Malfoy said, his eyes, he knew, narrowing in the darkness. Can't you even agree that there might be some serenity in looking at the stars?Can't you agree that it might be less exciting than Quidditch? he fired back.

I never said it was less exciting, I said it was - oh bugger you, Malfoy said savagely. You want the truth, Potter? I dragged you out into the sodding field to look at the sodding stars so that I could show you this!

And he pointed at the sky as though stabbing it with a knife.

Harry paused, a bit shaken, but recovered himself quickly.

I don't know what you're pointing at! he yelped.

Malfoy said, his finger tilted up toward the center of the heavens. You see them? There's a group of a dozen or something stars that make a weird kind of backward s' thing - bloody hell, Potter, look where I'm pointing! That square is the head. That's Draco. Harry asked, his jaw dropping a little, his head swimming slightly from that rush of information. 

That's Draco, the dragon of the heavens, Malfoy growled, dropping his chin onto his knees and looking away from him. That's what I was named after.That star? Harry repeated vaguely.

That constellation! he snapped angrily. It's always there, whether summer or winter. I was named after that dragon.And you wanted to tell me this because ..?Because you don't know a goddamn thing about me, Potter.And now I know after what you were named, Harry said blankly. He felt anger flare up in him again; perhaps it was the only way he knew to respond to everything Malfoy pushed at him. Now I can understand you just perfectly.You've got no respect for the ancestry of dragons, have you? Malfoy began again, but there was a new hint of desperation in his voice, as if Harry's understanding had been his goal all along. Their strength, their grace, their unquestioned power? Their fine breeding? Don't you get it, that's what I'm supposed to live up to!

_You do have fine breeding, _Harry thought mindlessly, staring again at the moonlit hair framing Draco's grey eyes. 

Unquestioned power? he said instead. Aspiring to become a new generation Voldemort, then?

Despite the darkness, he saw that his comment had made Malfoy very red in the face. His eyes and lips had become tense slits, his hands curled into the grass. He looked ready to rip out the moon-pale strands of hair that seemed so odd and lovely to him.

A fine thing to say, Harold, Malfoy seethed. A fine prediction, coming from someone named after some fat old lady's smelly cat.You've sunk to calling me smelly, then? Harry said tersely.

A dragon doesn't aspire to take over the entire bloody population of the world's dragons! Malfoy said, his voice rising to a new level. He looked ready to jump to his feet, and Harry braced himself to follow. Instead the other boy leaned forward, making his piercing grey eyes all the more visible.

They just need to have control over their _own environment_, the blonde fumed at him. I'm trying to _take control_ here, can't you see that, Potter? And you're being so _bloody_ resistant!You're trying to take control of me by dragging me into a field and shouting at me? Harry asked, but his voice was trembling; he was truly a little frightened. Malfoy's rants usually made perfect sense, and the fact that he seemed to be off on some mindless tangent was a little worrisome. That makes no sense!None of it makes sense! Malfoy shrieked, his teeth bared slightly.

Haven't you ever heard of the Imperius Curse?Haven't you ever heard of _listening_ for once in your miserable life? Malfoy cried out, and the desperation was clear now, and all the more unnerving. Harry recoiled, falling back on his hands. Haven't you ever looked at what's really in front of you?All I see is you, Malfoy.

This seemed to snap something in the other boy. He closed his mouth, pursed his lips, licked them quickly, and then pressed them tightly back together again. The burning red in his face was apparent now. Quietly, he closed his eyes.

It's _Draco_, you great, sodding prick, he murmured in frustration. I just bloody _told_ you that.

His eyes snapped open again. Harry, too, found himself licking his lips, because somehow, during all the screaming, the grey-eyed boy had placed himself inches away from his face. His chest was tight; he was nervous. He might have chewed his fingernails if it wouldn't have been such a horrible giveaway.

There's a difference? Harry whispered, truly afraid now.

Malfoy stared at him for a long, hard moment, as if trying to decide whether the boy in front of him was a bastard or simply as pathetically lost as he sounded.

I give up! he snarled at last. I'm sick of trying to explain myself to you, Potter, you're completely bloody ignorant to anything outside of yourself. Let's see you mess this signal up, shall we?

And before he had a chance to ask what he had been missing, Draco swiftly bent forward, pressing his lips firmly into his own. Harry's eyes flew open, but a pair of delicate hands had already pressed themselves against his shoulders, and he realized that it was too late to resist.

He was pushed down into the long grass, and his companion rolled over top of him. It was only then that he felt the life of the kiss; the weight of the mouth surrounding his lower lip, the moist warmth that enclosed it. His lips were soft and surprisingly full, like a chocolate that looks small in the hand but melts to coat your mouth completely, and rationality aside, Harry was more than pleased to comply with them.

The other boy broke the kiss for a half second, lifting his head, and he naturally lifted his chin, tempting him back down. With this they created a subtle rhythm that trapped them in the kiss, made it ease off only to go on and on. 

Harry felt Draco's hair fall against his ears, felt his thighs pressing gently against the outside of his own. It was comforting to be held down, another trick that allowed him not to stop. He even raised his hand, placing it softly behind the other boy's neck; his skin was warm, deliciously warm in the cold autumn air.

Finally, the soft lips pulled away. 

Harry lay there, his chest heaving gently. He left his lips parted, then licked them spontaneously, feeling with a flick of his tongue how tender and swollen they had become. Cauciously, he opened his eyes.

Malfoy was staring down at him, his face obsured by darkness despite grey eyes that glowed in the pale moonlight. Looking into it, Harry thought at first that his face looked cruel, but realized on some level that the expression was merely his way of denoting uncertainty.

Do you see now why I want you to call me by my first name, Potter? he asked quietly.

he breathed. Call me Harry, if you want that so badly.

Malfoy's lips twitched into something that looked curiously like the look on Hermione's face when she'd been proud of a right answer. He licked his lips - perhaps he, too, was marveling at how tender they'd become - and bent down again.

Harry lifted himself into the kiss, letting his mouth melt into it, disolving into the warmth of the embrace. It was caucious and gentle, but casual at the same time, as though they had both lost the capacity to worry.

_He fancies me, _some part of his mind whispered. _He wasn't lying that night._

And then, like a storm enveloping a pale blue sky, he remembered his conclusions concerning just how Malfoy fancied him. He was attracted to him, maybe to all boys, because he had the body of a Quidditch player, green eyes, whatever - but Malfoy did not love him. Malfoy could not possibly care.

And as this final thought broke through his mind, he jolted, breaking the kiss. He felt a sudden panic fill him, and forgetting that Malfoy was bent just a few inches above his face, he made a desperate move to sit up.

In the process, his forehead smashed hard into the other's face.

Malfoy made a startled cry, cursing as he sat up fully in the night air. Harry took this opportunity to scrabble out from underneath him, inching away from him in the tall, scratchy brush.

Sodding hell, he was murmuring, holding a hand to his face. Harry saw in the moonlight that he had smashed in the blonde's nose. Blood was flowing from it liberally, seeping through the cracks in his hand. Gods, nice one.

Ignoring the fact that his comment seemed less than shrewdly sarcastic, Harry steeled himself, his defenses reassembling sturdier than before.

I know what you want, Malfoy, he said coldly.

Still holding his hand over his gushing nose, he turned to him as though about to remind him that he was now Draco, dragon of the heavens, to him - but then narrowed his eyes.

What are you talking about? he asked in a strained, muffled voice.

It's fine with me that you like blokes, Harry continued, But I don't want to be one of them. I don't want to sleep with you.Sleep with you? murmured Malfoy, his narrowed eyes widening with surprise. The rest of his expression was obscured by his hand. You think that's what I was doing, trying to rape you in this bloody field?I don't know about rape, Harry snapped, But use me for sex, yes.I brought you here to talk to you, to show you my namesake, Malfoy said heatedly. To be honest with you, and you turn it into a shag?I'm sure that's all you had planned, Harry replied stubbornly.

You think I just wanted to have you? he said, incredulous despite the obvious anger in his voice.

I can't imagine what else you'd want with me, he said adamantly, crossing his arms. I'm sure it would have been a great triumph, a great story to tell all your Slytherin friends. I slept with the bloody boy-who-lived, and he loved it.I'm sure you _would_ have loved it, Potter, the blonde sneered. How sad you won't experience my pleasures.

He had dropped his hand in anger; Harry now saw that the blood had flown down over his mouth and onto his chin. It was ugly and smeared, and he felt a sudden urge to apologize, but withheld it.

I'm not gay, he said, and realizing how pathetic that sounded after what he had done, continued, Or stupid enough to let you have your way with me.You've always got to know it all, haven't you? Malfoy seethed. Reality is always what you want to see, is it? Well the truth, Potter, is that you are a shallow, misguided fool.

He licked his lips - Harry realized how he must taste only blood, and not a kiss, on them - smoothed his robes as always, and turned. He watched him walk into the distance, the darkness swallowing him quickly, and did not dare to move until he had disappeared entirely from his vision.

It took him a good half hour to find his Firebolt in the darkness _- bloody Malfoy, _he'd thought - and as soon as he did, he threw his leg over the broomstick and began the short journey back to Gryfinndor Tower.

He tried his best to resist looking at the stars as he went.

/

Draco: I've just thought of something.

Harry: What's that?

Draco: How the hell are we supposed to curse her ex-lover when we're not allowed to leave her sodding house!

Harry: Maybe you can package a hex with a Howler?

Draco: Or maybe we can tempt her with revenge so cunningly that she'll be tricked into setting us free ...

Harry: Do you think she hates him that much, to lose us just to get back at him?

Ms. Rose: Sorry boys! Sexpot wizards perverted cheating low-lifes!

Draco: Bleeding tea party, this must be karma .. and excuse me? Sexpots?

Ms. Rose: With unbuttoned silk shirts and all.

Harry: It's true, he loves those.

Draco: I am not a I am an extremely dignified, educated -

Ms. Rose: Blonde with a tight arse!

Harry: And pretty eyes.

Draco: You have no sense of elegance or sophistication! Don't tell me, Harry, that you're willing to submit to this? To being her plaything, her well-dressed whore -

Ms. Rose: Oh, I don't play. I just watch.

Harry: And sometimes make suggestions.

Draco: You're sick. You're both sick. What's next, a two-way mirror in our bedroom?

Harry: I didn't know you were into mirrors .. why didn't you say something?

Draco: Sexual addicts! You're on orgasm crack, the two of you, you're shooting it up with ... with explicit liquids! You disgust me!

Ms. Rose: It's true. I'm on cherry lube .. I just can't stop ..

Harry: Can I borrow some of your stash?

Ms. Rose: What's addiction without hooked friends?

Draco: Am I the only one who uses my bed for things like, oh, I don't know, reading and sleeping? Am I the only one among us who thinks of extra-virgin olive oil as something used for _cooking_? Do either of you use the shower to _clean_ more than defile yourselves? Am I -

Harry: Rambling? Yes.

Ms. Rose: Just go with it, sweetheart. You're young!

Harry: And you've got no choice.

Draco: I'll go get the apron ...


	31. Plans Are Made to Be Broken

**- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -**

**Authoress Ramble**: Ohh, well hasn't it just been … forever … since I updated this! I'm sorry. There was moving to Madison, and starting college, and being depressed … a very crazy time for me … and I'm trying to dedicate myself now to being a better authoress slave to you all. By the way, I can't seem to make lines between scenes – they and other symbols seem to disappear upon post – and I don't know how to fix that, so I'm sorry! Don't get confused!

**Warnings**: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (just a kiss now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is still _Thursday evening _in the story.

"Only two days left, my delicious little darling," swooned a girl with lovely, though sharp, features, clasping her hands together and twirling happily in a circle. "Ooh, ooh _ooh_, I absolutely can't wait!"

"I can," her companion muttered miserably. He sat figgeting on a single bed draped in green velvet, his face reflecting a similar, though sicker, shade. The torches of the dormitory room flickered eerily on the windowless stone walls of the dungeon, where Pansy's tall black shadow danced in unmitigated joy.

"Oh love," she said, stopping suddenly so that her skirts swung wildly around her legs. "You can't possibly not be just the _tiniest_ bit excited. By this time in two days, Harry Potter will be naked in our very special friend's bed, who will be the happiest bloke in the whole _world_!"

"Or we'll muff it up, and be killed."

"Oh hush," she scolded, in the same sing-song voice. "Don't you want to see his face positively glowing with true _love_?"

"Frankly, I'd rather live," spat Blaise.

"Oh precious, he'll be too overjoyed to kill us!" she exclaimed, sighing happily.

"Say we're wrong about him wanting Potter," the flushed boy began sulkily, only to be interrupted again by the same lovely chant.

"Nonsense, nonsense," she said carelessly, waving him off.

"Say we humiliate him on the Quidditch field …"

"Oh bloody Quidditch, who gives a rat's arse about that, our precious Drake – blessed with eternal love, eternally grateful to his friends, so clever, so brave, helping fate along …!"

"… finds us out and murders us in cold blood …"

"… his guardian angels, bringing him his life partner as good as wrapped in a bright red bow, a happy life with his soulmate, little blonde green-eyed babies calling me Auntie Pansy, no – no! – _Godmother_ Pansy …"

"Pansy, would you shut it and listen to me for a moment!" shrieked Blaise, jumping up from the bed. She did, turning to give him a sour, impatient stare. "Look, Panse, there are a thousand ways this could go wrong. Your plan, it's, it's, well … it's certifiably bloody insane, and you know it!"

"Oh nonsense, you cowardly little git," said Pansy, her nose high in the air. "It's perfectly simple. Do we need to go over it again?"

"No," said Blaise vivaciously, but she had already begun.

"So! Before the game, we steal into his room, immobilize him, and then I take the polyjuice potion" – here she took a flask out of her skirt, flashing it in front of his face with a devious little smile – "and transform into Drake, and then you take some and transform into _me-"_

"Why do I need to transform into _you_?" Blaise asked, looking sick again.

"Because, precious, everyone would notice if _I _was missing, but no one's going to be having a fit over you, not on a game day."

Blaise pursed his lips angrily at this, which Pansy took as invitation to go on.

"Then you – as me, of course – secure Draco, proceed to the match, and guard him in the stands until it ends. And then I-"

"Panse," he interrupted suddenly. "The polyjuice potion only lasts for an hour, what if the game goes on too long?"

"I'll end it early," she announced simply.

"By _catching the Snitch_?" Blaise gaped, his jaw dropping open.

"Is there another way to end it?"

"Pansy, it's not _easy_ to catch that bloody thing, it takes a great deal of skill and practice, few people can consider themselves-"

"You know I'm _very_ good with my hands, love."

"Pansy-"

"Oh, shut it. So we end the game, and I wait until all the other members of the Gryffindor team wander away, and then I strike, and corner Potter _alone_, where he has no choice but to listen to me-"

"What if you can't get him alo-"

"And then confess my – I mean, of course, Drake's – undying love and sexual desire, and then mysteriously slip away, return to my true form, free Draco and restore him to his body, and then the next time Potter sees our darling-"

"But what if-"

"He'll smother him with kisses and carry him off to bed, and we'll have our own private victory celebration as they consummate their love!"

Blaise had been listening to this with barely restrained horror, and now, as Pansy ended her speech with a long, happy sigh, he seized the opportunity, standing and raising his voice to a level so uncomfortable he nearly shrieked as he spoke.

"Or," he yelped, "Or, you won't be able to catch the Snitch and you'll transform back into yourself in the air and Slytherin will have to forfeit the whole match, in which case _everyone_ will want to kill us, _or_ Draco, upon transforming back into himself, will murder us both for impersonating him on the field, clearly not flattering him, and worse, for misleading Potter, which could get 'round the whole school, and then everyone would know he fancied Potter in which case he'd surely _torture_ us prior to our murder, or-"

"My god, precious, take a breath," said Pansy, curling her nose in distaste. "You worry too much! Everything will be fine."

"Fine!" shrieked Blaise. "Fine! Oh, right, it'll be jolly good until Draco's wand is down my throat!"

Here Pansy sighed, as if explaining something obvious to a nagging child.

"If it doesn't work out," she said slowly, "Which of course it _won't_, you know … there are always memory charms."

"Memory charms," Blaise repeated slowly, after a long pause.

"Memory charms," she said, and smiled.

Blaise licked his lips slowly, staring at his knees for a time, and then shyly glanced upwards.

"What sort of ... private victory celebration?"

Pansy flashed him her most cunning, vivacious smile, bearing her sharp white teeth in an almost primal way before leaning forward and patting him firmly on the thigh.

"We can talk about that later," she replied silkily. "We have more important things to discuss: like the one factor that threatens to ruin the entire plan."

"Factor? What factor?" Blaise asked, momentarily forgetting the many reasons he had previously sworn would lead to his demise.

"Hermione Granger," said Pansy tartly, tossing her hair in annoyance.

"Granger?" Blaise questioned. "Granger, the bookworm Granger? What's she got to do with anything?"

"The woman is a hawk," Pansy explained scornfully, "And Potter is her fat little mouse. The moment we start sniffing around Potter, she'll know, and god knows she might get suspicious, or worse, interfere outright."

"You think so?" Blaise asked doubtfully.

"Absolutely," said Pansy. "And we can't afford a setback like that. Time is of the essence here – we can't risk it. That's why I'm going to take care of her tonight."

"Take .. take care of her?"

"Oh, yes, darling," said Pansy slowly, narrowing her dark eyes.

"H-How?"

"Let us just say, love," she explained in a sultry voice, "That if Potter is her fat little mouse, we'll only just dangle a lame bunny rabbit in front of her for awhile. By the time her meal's gone cold, we'll dropping our mousie into love stew."

"My god," said Blaise, partly horrified and partly curious. "I don't know what the bloody hell that means, but it sounds evil, and evil usually works."

"Only my kind of evil, precious," said Pansy, her voice mysteriously light. "You'll excuse me, love. I'm off to the library."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, Granger!"

Pansy slid into a seat at the same heavy wood table, letting out a content little sigh and flipping her hair back carelessly, smiling a lovely little smile. "Fancy finding you here!"

Hermione, who had been contentedly reading an anonymous heavy, leather-bound spellbook, raised her eyes suspiciously above the pages, keeping her true expression hidden.

"Oh, Pansy," she said softly. "I didn't know you _read_ things."

"Well, you know, from time to time … oh to hell with it, you've caught me!" Pansy said in one long breath, following it all with a sparkling laugh. "Oh Granger, Granger, you're as sharp as McGonagall! What I've _really_ come here for is to ask you a favor."

"A favor?" Hermione asked, whispering in lieu of proper library conduct. "Oh, really. And what sort of favor would that be? Don't tell me you need help passing something."

"Passing? Oh, gods no," replied Pansy, who laughed lightly again.

Hermione narrowed her wide brown eyes.

"I won't make some illegal love potion for you," she hissed nastily.

"Oh, darling, do you really think _I_ need a love potion?"

"Then what?" she asked irritably, still obscured by her large book.

"Well," said Pansy excitedly, who pressed her hands palm-down on the table and leaned across it, keeping her eyes level with those of her companion, "Well, it's a little silly, really. But you just _happen_ to be close with a bloke who I, well, hm'mmm …"

Here she pretended to blush, adverting her eyes shyly. Hermione narrowed her eyes to snakelike slits.

"Whom you fancy," she finished dryly. 

"Oh _yes_, god Granger, you're so right," Pansy spilled out, her voice heavy with longing. "You don't know how long I've wanted him, Granger. Every night, as I slip into bed, I press my hand to my chest – I mean, my heart – and I _pray_ to Salazaar that he'll notice me –"

"Notice you?" said Hermione viciously. "Have you tried leaving a room with your back turned?"

"Don't flatter me, Granger," said Pansy, sniffling as if on the verge of tears. "You don't understand what it's like to _long _for someone, to ache night after night, craving their very-"

"That's enough, Parkinson!" hissed Hermione, looking around the room quickly before giving her a nasty glare. "I get the point. Do you mind keeping it down a little? We're in the _library_, if she hears something so obviously sexual-"

"So you'll help me?"

"Help you?" she gasped, finally lowering her book to reveal a face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. "You've been around half the school, Parkinson. I won't let Harry be your next conquest!"

"Harry?" Pansy asked feebly. "Harry … you mean … Harry Potter?"

"Of course!" Hermione whispered harshly. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"But," Pansy began, trailing off into a shy giggle. "Harry Potter … he wouldn't look at anything in a skirt twice. Surely you've ..?"

Hermione's face flushed a deep shade of crimson, and she pulled the book to her chest as if to protect herself.

"Don't say things like that about him," she said softly, her features fierce.

"I'm sorry," said Pansy in a drole voice, "It's beyond the point, anyway. You have to realize that I mean … Ronald, don't you?"

"Ronald?" Hermione gasped. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, licking her lips nervously even as they shook. "You can't be … you can't be serious!"

"I know, I know," said Pansy in a voice that was convincingly tragic. "He's a Gryffindor, I'm a Slytherin, our families would _feud_ over our love! … it's like Rome and Julianne, or whatever that Muggle rubbish was called!"

"Romeo and Juliet," Hermione corrected automatically.

"Yes," said Pansy, wiping away a tear. "That. But even though so much tears us apart, I know that if he just … if he knew how I felt, how deeply, how passionately I .. I _need_ him in my life … oh Granger, I know he'd come to me."

She seemed to be a loss for words. Still holding onto her book for dear life, the color seemed to have drained from her face; and after a long, awkward moment, she swallowed, and parted her lips.

"Why .. why Ron?" she asked in a distant voice.

"Well," began Pansy, but stopped, again adverting her eyes as if horribly shy, but finally going on in a soft whisper. "Surely you've noticed …"

"Noticed what?" Hermione said, though she was almost afraid to ask.

"Well," she began again, shyly, sweetly, "How very much he's … mmm … grown up."

"Actually, I haven't really .."

"Oh, but Granger," Pansy cried passionately, suddenly standing and leaning across the table down toward her dazed companion. "Surely you've noticed that scrawny, freckled body making way to the body of a tall, slender but … oh, strong! … man?"

"I don't look at Ron that …"

"Those chiseled cheekbones, and those endless sky-blue eyes …"

"N-No, I …"

"And that hair, god, that hair, so vibrantly red, so rich, like melted fire … I've always had a thing for redheads, you know."

Hermione swallowed, looking down at her lap uncomfortably.

"It contrasts perfectly with all that milky, pale skin. And have you noticed his arms?"

"His arms?" she asked weakly, pulling the book tighter against her chest.

"Oh, yes, his arms. Some boys, their arms are as flabby as those worm things, and some are so buffed up it would be like being embraced by a pile of rocks, but his … they're the perfect balance. Do you know what I mean?"

"Ronald's arms have really been of minimal interest to me, I don't look at him like …"

"Do you know what his arms remind me of?"

"Please don't tell me."

"Peaches. I mean, a bunch of good, fresh, ripe peaches. They're firm, but still soft to the touch. Peaches warmed by the summer sun … he's been ripe for a long time now, and I think it's time our Ronald was finally plucked!"

Hermione, who all this time had been sitting as though waiting to be struck, seemed to have finally reached her breaking point. She pressed her eyes tightly together, opened her lips to take in a long, desperate breath, and yelped:

"If I tell him you think his arms are like peaches, will you please go away and just leave me to my reading?"

Pansy stopped, standing up fully. If Hermione had opened her eyes a moment earlier, she might have seen the devilish smile that flooded her features only for the briefest of moments.

"That won't be necessary," she said coolly. "I only want you to give him this."

Here she removed from her pocket a note of parchment folded down into a neat little box. She set it carefully on the table, resting her fingertips on it as she spoke.

"I'd really rather you didn't read it," she said softly. "It's quite personal."

Hermione reached out and blindly snatched the note, shoving it in her pocket as if it were on fire.

"Don't worry," she said, still trying to catch her breath. Finally, her features hardened, though they still seemed on the verge of shattering. She looked up briefly, her eyes wet and fierce. "I've heard enough."

Hours later, Ron would be snoring in his four-poster, having failed in his noble attempt to wait up for Harry. His best friend would climb in silently through the window, the back of his head shrouded in moonlight, his face eclipsed. He would place the Firebolt carefully back in its place, quietly change – and just as he slid back his curtains, the wood of his bed would moan a little, half-rousing his friend from his peaceful slumber.

"Harry," Ron mumbled. "You .. you all right then?"

"I'm fine, Ron," a voice whispered back in the dark.

"Did 'e .. did he fight .." – here a long, deep yawn – "fight you?"

Silence. There was some shuffling in the darkness, like someone getting under the covers, and then finally, a reply.

"Yes," the voice said.

"Di'you win, Harry?" he mumbled.

Now there was a longer silence, one that stretched out, it seemed, forever; and Ron was nearly back asleep when the voice spoke out.

"Go to sleep, Ron," it said. And he did.

Harry could not make peace with his mind as easily as could Ron. He lay awake for a long time, rigid under the warm sheets, shifting uncomfortably as the kiss inevitably came back to him. It would have been better if it was just a stupid, simple kiss – that, maybe, he could've convinced himself to be awkward, or wrong, or just too quick to recall. But their kiss had been a series of a thousand kisses melting into one another, each new one a little more desperate, each one different in some way, maybe by fingertips finding their way to his neck, maybe by feeling white silk falling through his fingers, maybe by warm breath on his cheek …

He groaned, trying to banish all of them, all the miserable, precious details, from his mind. He tried to convince himself that it had all been a ploy for sex, but deep down, in the darkness, in the silence, of his bed, he knew that couldn't logically be right. The kiss had been too desperate, and it went on not as though Draco were expecting more to follow, but as if he were drinking in every second like it was doomed to end.

But if it wasn't that – if it wasn't just for sex – what could it possibly mean? Draco couldn't fancy him anymore than he could fancy Draco; it was fundamentally incorrect, like the matching ends of magnets pressed together. When he thought of Draco loving, he thought of Draco's stiff parents, as filled with happiness and passion as a cracked, dark oil painting. He had never thought of anything so breathless, so wanting, as the kiss.

He closed his eyes, willing sleep on. What if … what if he actually wanted it again?

This led him to a horrible thought, one that he felt before he heard; it jolted his chest like a splash of icy water: he had already rejected Draco; he had already made his choice; and it was too late. Assuming Draco had really brought him to the field to invite him into this – he wasn't sure what to call it, this incredible new world where Draco was sexier than any woman he'd ever seen, any man, any anything – if he had, he would probably never forgive him for ruining everything. Draco was not someone, he knew, who could forgive easily, if at all. He'd disgraced the chance forever, and there was no going back.

With this horrible chant in his mind, he soon lost hold of anything but this miserable feeling of hopelessness. As sleep gradually settled into him, he grasped at the kiss, fast becoming a dream – of every warm, gentle touch, of his lips pressed into his, and the yearning that kept him going back for more and coaxing him in, all in the same movement.

He fell asleep with his lips still parted, waiting for it to start again.

Fin for now!

Ms. Rose: So what did you boys think of the movie?

Draco: Frankly, I am absolutely _outraged_. No one from that sodding company contacted me in order to ask permission for my portrayal!

Harry: Not rich enough, are you?

Draco: That filthy actor looked _nothing_ like me.

Harry: Oh, I don't know about …

Draco: His hair was _clearly_ charmed an unnatural color. And sitting in a tree. Have you _ever_ seen me sitting in a goddamn tree, Potter?

Harry: The ferret, though. That was a fairly sharp rendition of your ferret-self.

Draco: Maybe if they hadn't shown me crawling down the _front of Goyle's trousers!_ They show this movie to _children_? That would clearly be a highly inappropriate act of sexual abuse against a student, ferret or not –

Harry: And the scene with Moaning Myrtle … oh, god …

Draco: Please, _tell me_ that never really happened.

Harry: Are you _kidding_ me?

Draco: The entire film was clearly perverse. And what was with those ridiculous sound effects for our wands! Bang! Zoom! Flash! And in a cloud of magical sparkles I do something amazing!

Harry: That was laughable, I agree.

Draco: Yes, Muggles, it's exactly like that. They may as well have shown us making potions in little Muggle Easy Bake Ovens, for Merlin's sake.

Harry: And there were no Veela at the World Cup!

Draco: I suppose the bang! flash! sparkle! people couldn't use their amazing charms to make that one happen.

Harry: That was the most disappointing part, I think.

Draco: Yes. Pity, pity. A good Veela scene might have made the experience slightly worth it.

Ms. Rose: So what would you say? Two stars?

Draco: I give it a bang, a flash and a sodding sparkle.


	32. Peaches

**- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -**

**Authoress Ramble**: A short chapter, but I like it. Tomorrow the match starts (huzzah!) … you're all probably all thinking, what an amazingly fast update, and you're right … just don't get too spoiled! I mean, I do have a life outside of this. I swear.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (just some minor references now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Friday morning _in the story.

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The next morning, Harry had anything but food on his mind as he sat down for an early breakfast. Narrowing his green eyes, he wasted no time in scanning the table across the Hall from his own. He could see Pansy, eating a tart with one hand while posing the other in front of her as she stared intently at the glare of her manicure in the soft light; Blaise was chewing his eggs with downcast eyes. And Draco was absolutely nowhere to be seen.

He sat back on the bench, sighing internally and cursing himself. He felt irresistibly guilty, and though the image of the blonde sobbing into his pillow hardly came easily, he was still left with the undeniable truth that had badly, badly fucked up. Whatever he was doing – sobbing, sulking, setting fire to his furniture – it was his own damn fault. And that made him lose his appetite indefinitely.

Had he not been so very absorbed in his own musings, he might have noticed that Hermione, too, couldn't seem to turn away from the Slytherin table. She looked up between every sentence of her book, staring daggers at a certain diner there; and when she would fail to look up from her nails, she would shove a bit of toast into her mouth, chew, read a few words, and glare again.

Ron, however, was feeling rather optimistic. The game was tomorrow, no Potions until next week; that was all good by him. He slathered a bit of jam on his toast and turned eagerly to Harry, hoping to swap Quidditch strategies; but Harry beat him to it.

"Malfoy isn't down for breakfast," he said mildly, unable to resist expressing his contorted emotions.

"Yeah," said Ron, noticing it for the first time. "Hmm – do you think he's out sick?"

"Sick?" Harry asked. He swallowed uncomfortably. "Sick – well – how would I know?"

"You saw him last," his friend responded, now leaning in, suddenly more interested in the topic. "Harry, did you hex him badly enough that he's in the hospital wing?"

"Hex? – what – no!"

"Oh," said Ron. He took a large bite of toast, his eyes disappointed. "Well, maybe he is sick then. I hope so! Not that we need him out of the game to win it, ehh?"

"What game?" Harry asked, distracted again by the empty place where Malfoy's slender form ought to be.

"What _game_?" Ron sputtered, a bit of toast bursting from the corner of his mouth. "Harry, the match! The match against _Slytherin_! The most important game of the season, _that_ match!"

"Oh – right," Harry forced himself to say, stirring himself from his reverie. "Yeah – about that, Ron – your broom – did Malfoy return it?"

Ron's face curdled for a moment, and he frowned sourly, nodding.

"Found it just outside the common room door this morning," he spat. "I would've never expected him to do something so _considerate_ – not to say anyone could've stolen it, just lying there – and there was grass stuck in the bristles-"

Harry nodded. At about this moment, unbeknownst to the two boys, Pansy had finally glanced up from analyzing her hand, and had met Hermione's death stare. She first lowered her hand, raising her eyebrow questioningly; Hermione turned a deep shade of red and narrowed her eyes angrily.

This seemed to please Pansy, somehow, and as Hermione watched on she dipped her hand into a large bowl of fruit, emerging with a plump, pale orange fruit. She squeezed it suggestively in her hand, smiling a delicious smirk.

Hermione slammed her book shut, standing suddenly from the table. Both Harry and Ron wheeled around to stare at her in alarm. She rummaged wildly through her bag, finally pulling out a square piece of folded parchment.

"Here," she said in a loud, high-pitched voice, throwing it toward Ron. It landed on his bacon, and he picked it up, dumbfounded. "Here! Take it! I can't stand this anymore, I just can't!"

"Hermione," Ron said, just as she was righting her bag to storm away, "Hermione, who is this from?"

"Oh, you'll know when you read it," she said, her cheeks pink. "But don't read it aloud, it's very _personal_!"

With this final shout, she turned on her heel and stormed from the hall. Ron stared after her for a moment, but curiosity got the better of him; he slowly unfolded the note and began reading. At first he blinked several times, then blushed; a moment later his jaw hung open, his eyes bulging like a fish struggling for air.

"Ron?" Harry asked, thoroughly confused. "Who's it from?"

"I – I – _peaches_?"

"Ron?"

"Harry, this is – It's from – Bloody hell, here, read it yourself!"

He handed the note to his friend with shaking hands. Reluctantly, Harry took it, reading it aloud softly to himself in a whisper that steadily made Ron wince and whimper and hold his breath as he went on.

"Dearest Ronald," Harry began in an odd voice. "This may come as a shock to you, because of course you are my most darling friend, and we are ever so close – Ron, this sounds like-"

"Go on," said Ron in an urgent whisper.

"Ever so close," continued Harry, clearing his throat. "You may think that my only passion is for the miserable, boring books I read, but my true lust, Ronald, is for you."

He stopped here, licking his lips and swallowing uncomfortably. Whomever this was from, if he was right or wrong, it seemed too dangerous to go on.

"Keep reading," Ron insisted weakly. After a long, hesitant pause, he did.

"You may imagine that as I climb into my bed, my mind is full of dry knowledge, but no, Ronald – no! All I think of, shivering in my thin nightgown, are your lovely blue eyes, your pretty red hair, the sexy way you seem to drift away in class-"

"She thinks I'm _sexy_," Ron whispered in a way that made Harry think he might faint.

Unable to go on, Harry skimmed the paragraphs that remained, letting his eyes find the signature. They did; his mouth dropped open in horror.

"No," he said, setting the letter on the breakfast table in a daze.

"It looks like her handwriting, doesn't it?" Ron suggested weakly.

He could only nod, suddenly feeling dizzy himself. It couldn't be – she would never write something so – so – _provocative_! But, of course, if she'd kept this secret for so long, maybe she'd kept other secrets … she _was_ a woman, after all.

"I … I don't know what to tell you, Ron," he said at last.

"Tell me what to do," he said, almost desperately, his voice shrill with fear. "I don't know what to say to her!"

"Well, it all depends," began Harry in what he hoped was a sensible voice. "I mean – do you think about her in her … nightgown, and all that?"

"Well …" Ron began, trailing off uncomfortably.

"Well?" he asked.

"Do you?" the redhead shot back, averting his eyes.

"No!" cried Harry, before he'd properly had time to think. He stopped himself, steadied himself, and went on. "I mean, no. No, not in that particular … way."

"'Course not," Ron was muttering to himself. "You're her friend. I mean, she's both our friends. She's always been a friend." Here he looked up imploringly at Harry, his lips in a pathetic, downcast frown. "But – I mean – she's really gotten … you know."

Harry really did not want to have this conversation. He swallowed hard, wondering how the hell to get out of it without abandoning his friend in this very, very awkward moment.

"Well," he began dryly. "I guess you should talk to her. You know. See what happens."

Ron nodded. Really, he nodded several times, each time becoming more and more confident, and by the third or fourth nod he was almost smiling.

"You're right," he said firmly. "I'm going after her!"

"Oh," said Harry, watching as his friend got up from the table, and oddly enough, began to smooth his hair and straighten his clothes. "Okay, then."

"Wish me luck, Harry!" Ron declared, smiling shakily down at him.

"Good luck!" he said weakly. He watched as Ron walked brazenly out of the hall, and despite the genuine concern he felt for his friend, he couldn't help but think that Hermione would need it more.

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Hermione sat down heavily on the stairs just outside the Great Hall, letting her heavy bag fall off her sagging shoulders with a far-off thud. She wanted to cry, but was prevented from crying by her overwhelming desire to break Pansy's nose, and after that, every one of her perfect nails.

She knew it wasn't really wrong of her, to fancy Ron. After all, she'd had her chance – all these years, she'd had countless chances! And yet, it was their friendship that had ruined every single one. They were a trio, and if she ever … acted … it could destroy that. It could destroy everything she'd built up with both of them, especially Ron. He would never look at her in the same way again.

She took in a deep breath, fighting back her tears. She still had hope. Maybe Ron wouldn't want her! Maybe he'd reject her. But then, knowing Ron … Hermione could imagine him falling prey to Pansy's undeniable charms. Still, though … it might not turn out as badly as she thought.

Suddenly, she heard the heavy door of the Hall open. She looked up; standing there, walking toward her, was Ron.

She looked down, pursing her lips; and when he finally stopped in front of her, it took everything she had to look him in the face.

"Hermione," he said, a little shakily.

"Ron," she said, swallowing.

"I … read the note," he said lamely, trailing off at the sight of her trembling lips.

"Yeah?" she asked, her voice dangerously on the verge of breaking. "What did you think?"

Ron swallowed hard, sweating. He thought for a moment (sure deep down that this was a test, and that she would remember his score forever) and said:

"Well, 'Mione … I think it's … _brilliant_."

Hermione sniffled loudly, unable to help the single tear that escaped her heart and trickled down her face. She looked away, hiding her face as best she could in her thick, wavy brown hair.

"I see," she whispered. "Well, that's … congratulations, Ron."

He frowned, utterly dismayed by her reaction. Considering the letter, this seemed to be an utterly incorrect display. Still, though, he blamed it on her being a girl, and summing up every ounce of courage he had, he held out his hand.

Hermione could see it out of the corner of her eye, and stared at it for as long as she could without seeming to be rejecting it. She took in another deep breath – after all, she was going to have to learn, now, how to accept these friendly gestures – and placed her hand in his.

He pulled her up, and then they stared at each other awkwardly, Hermione wondering why he was staring at her with such a dumb expression, and Ron wondering what the bloody hell he was going to say next.

But Ron, in a sudden stroke of genius, decided to say nothing.

He reached out, grabbing her waist with his hands, and Hermione, gasping in shock, was forced to stumble forward. As he held her like that, his fingers trembling against the waistband of her skirt, romantic inspiration left him, and he began to ramble uncontrollably.

"'Mione," he said, "It must have been hard for you, I mean, keeping it in all the time, keeping it a secret. It wasn't so hard for me because I never thought you would – I mean, I never considered – well, I considered _some_ things, but not like they would really happen, not like this, and I-"

"Ron," Hermione said finally, still in shock. "What in Merlin's name are you going on about?"

He stopped himself, letting his mouth hang open in surprise as he blushed. Then he steadied himself, took in a deep breath, yanked her forward, and kissed her as hard and as passionately as he could.

Hermione gasped a fraction of a second before he did it, and as such her lips were opened perfectly to meet him. It was really a good kiss when she closed her eyes, sweet and warm and simple, just the way she thought of Ron.

When they pulled apart, Ron, too embarrassed to look her in the eyes, buried his face in her hair, and began whispering in her ear.

"I'm so glad you told me," he said in a desperate, almost fearful voice, as if this were the moment of judgment. He kissed her briefly on the forehead, and she opened her eyes, staring ahead beyond his shoulder like a fawn caught in headlights.

"I'm really glad," he went on. "Though, the part about your breasts being firm as peaches, you didn't really, r-really need to say that … I … I didn't need to be convinced …"

He kissed her again on the high corner of her cheek, and this is when she spotted her – Pansy, leaning haughtily against the doorframe of a Great Hall door pushed open just enough for two pairs of sharp eyes and a long curtain of straight blonde hair to peek in. She was biting into the peach, almost lovingly, her eyes never leaving the scene; and when she licked her lips, she smirked in a way that made Hermione shiver.

She understood now; she understood everything, the note and the kiss and the peaches. There was a voice inside her that whispered something about treachery, something about, why on Earth would Pansy do this for her? – but she forgot it when Ron began calling her name.

"Hermione?" he was asking fearfully. "Did I say too much about … the peaches?"

Suddenly she could smell him, and feel how warm it was, being close to him like this; and the hands on her waist were suddenly too light. She closed her eyes, forgetting Pansy, forgetting everything; she stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him without an ounce of confusion.

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Pansy was pleased. She was very, very pleased. By the look of it, in fact, Hermione Granger had completely forgotten about the skinny old mouse that was Potter. She looked over at him, letting the scene sink in – how very _alone_ he was, how _vulnerable_, eating his simple little meal while, totally unknown to him, his two best friends were snogging in the hall.

She sighed with contentment, knowing how easy, now, it would be to get to him. Still, though, she felt a bit of pity for him; after all, it wasn't her real goal for him to be so alone at all.

"Don't fret, Potter," she thought to herself. "You'll be getting some soon enough."

"So?" Blaise asked suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She turned to him with a frown, nodding nonchalantly.

"The eagle is feasting," she announced in a bored voice. "She won't have much time for babysitting Potter in the next few days."

"Oh," he replied. He seemed to consider for a moment what exactly the feast incurred, and his face soured. For a Slytherin, it wasn't the sweetest of thoughts.

"Yes, darling," Pansy answered. "Now all we need to do is wait until tomorrow."

"Yeah," said Blaise weakly. "Hey – shouldn't we be checking on Draco? Breakfast is almost over, and he hasn't shown up yet."

"Of course!" Pansy said in a loud choice, seemingly insulted at the thought of having forgotten her dearest friend. "I'm going right now! But surely you can understand, Blaise, how I wouldn't have missed this for the world?"

He nodded, looking a bit sick.

"My god, darling," Pansy exclaimed harshly. "Have some pride in your work!"

And with this she stood, briskly escaping the hall to confront the true object of her every scheme.

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Ms. Rose: You know what, boys?

Draco: You've decided to set us free at long last?

Harry: You brought donuts?

Ms. Rose: Nooo! I've decided that I won't finish this story until I get 3000 reviews!

Draco: Does that mean at 3000, you'll stop?

Ms. Rose: Well, I don't really –

Draco: ATTENTION, FOOLS! REVIEW WITH HAST! MAKE THIS MADNESS CEASE! FREE ME AND YOUR LIVES WILL BE SPARED!

Ms. Rose: Did I say 3000? I meant 5000!

Draco: Oh, my mistake. You meant one review for every page!

Harry: It's a novel now, it's true.

Ms. Rose: A labor of love spanning two years … you can understand why I wouldn't want it to end, don't you?

Draco: Absolutely. We know how much you love to watch us suffer.

Harry: All good things come to an end. And this one ends with the best thing of all – our consummation.

Draco: Oh, no. No, no, no. I've read the rules of the sick fantasy website you post this mockery of our lives on. Consummation is absolutely forbidden!

Ms. Rose: You underestimate me, love. I'll post a link!

Draco: Ehh?

Ms. Rose: They can leave the sick fantasy website to read it, if they want to.

Harry: And you _know_ they want to.

Draco: … perverted bastards.


	33. Death of a Secret

**- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset -**

**Authoress Ramble**: Yet another short chapter, but oh well! I decided to write tonight because I just started a new fanfiction about Howl's Moving Castle (which is incredible, by the way, if you haven't seen it) and as I posted it I thought, damn. All these people are going to get these alerts and be pissed off that isn't Harry and Draco, and then they'll take me off their lists in their anger and I'll be unpopular. So I wrote Friday. I hope you like it.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (just some minor references now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused: **Today is _Friday _in the story.

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Pansy knocked impatiently on the heavy wooden door, sighing and rolling her eyes at the silence she was given in return. It was now twenty minutes into her first class, and although she knew that assisting her dearest of friends was her highest priority, he was making it rather difficult for her.

"Really, darling," she said loudly, her full lips nearly touching the paneling. "I know you're in there. A pure-blood never sleeps through his misery. Come now, precious!"

Silence. Pansy sighed deeply, twisting her silky hair restlessly around her fingers. Draco had rarely been this firm before in refusing her. Obviously, his little interlude with Potter last night had cut deep … an offense Pansy would forgive him once he took his rightful place on Draco's arm and started satisfying instead of isolating him.

"Well, my love," she began icily, giving up reason for malicious threat, "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Now, the easy way is to open the door and let me fix this, and the hard way is to ignore me until I become blinded by my anger and decide instead to take it out on Potter."

There was a long pause, and then, suddenly, what sounded like the loud shattering of glass against the other side of the door.

A response! Success!

Pansy licked her lips, pleased with herself. Meddling with Potter had clearly become Draco's weak point – how had she not thought of this before? She would have to remember this when she needed attention from Draco after the plan had succeeded. Oh, but didn't love always create weakness in a person? Even her precious blonde couldn't escape that reality.

"I'm getting _angry_ …" she continued, paying mind to keep her voice edgy, focused, but clearly on the point of running to Potter with the announcement that Draco was crying in bed all because of _him_.

"I'm warning you, Pansy," came the ice-cold voice from beyond the door. "If you do this to me now, I may never forgive you."

"Love, though you may not see it now, I intend to make your every wish come true," she replied seriously, smiling slightly in spite of herself.

"Unless you are carrying a box filled with Harry Potter's dismembered corpse," the voice announced bitterly, "You are not entering this room."

"Well," Pansy said with a slight smirk, "Not that wish."

"Then fuck off."

"Oh, but precious," she continued, treading carefully, letting his every word sink into her mind for fear of what clues it may contain, "How can I help you improve your life when you insist on shutting yourself up alone?"

"You want to improve my life?" the voice answered coldly. "Then swear from this moment never, _never_ again to speak the name of Harry fucking Potter, because if you do, your limbs will end up mixed with his."

Pansy licked her lips, thinking. It was clear now that Draco was just on the other side of the door, and his whisper, despite her resolve, was still rather frightening. A part of her mind – a very neglected part, mind you – whispered that perhaps this may be a good time to leave him be.

Unfortunately, there wasn't time for that.

"Make a choice, Drake," she whispered. "Let me into the room, or let me run and tell Potter all of your secrets."

"Potter already _knows_ my secret."

"Your family's connection to Lord Voldemort?"

"Don't fuck with me, Pansy."

"Oh, _that_ secret. Wait – the secret applying to all boys, or only to _him_?"

"There are no other boys."

"Of course not."

"Go and talk to him. See if I fucking care, Pansy, because there isn't a thing you could say that he hasn't already experienced or guessed. If you enjoy humiliating me so fucking much, then go – go and enjoy yourself."

Pansy frowned, her seaglass eyes dulling considerably. It was one thing to know that Draco had locked himself up alone to sulk – it was one thing to know that he was in turmoil over this. But it was unbearably sad to think that Potter had already managed to scar his heart.

"You told him?" Pansy whispered, her voice softer now, even sympathetic.

"I didn't have to _tell_ him anything," the voice answered bitterly.

"You …" she replied, her voice drifting off at the image of it. This was wrong. This was all horribly wrong! Draco was supposed to _wait_ to do something this stupid until she'd done it for him! Potter was supposed to be cornered into loving him, trapped to the point that he had no other option but to give in – not have Draco dangled in front of him this way, with so much opportunity to be stubborn and practical!

"Yes," the voice spat.

She waited a moment, and then, the better of part of her character unable to stop herself, asked:

"Was it good?"

"You're heartless," the voice whispered after a long pause, and for the first time, Pansy realized just how exhausted Draco seemed beneath all that fury and hatred. Her heart clenched again, and she wished she knew how to show her love in a way that was less selfish, or at least less dramatic.

"I know," she whispered, leaning her forehead against the door and smiling softly. "But it's a perfectly relevant question. Did you both enjoy it?"

"It was .. very .. good. I was almost sure it wouldn't stop until the bastard announced I was a slut and walked away."

Pansy let this sink in, and then, in spite of her best intentions to be nice, she let out a stifled chuckle. It came out like a combination of a sneeze and a moan, but Draco knew her too well to be deceived. She could imagine his face hardening, his eyes darkening as he said, after a furious pause:

"And just what is so bloody fucking funny about that, Pansy?"

"It's just … you … a slut? You barely give your poor love-sick admirers the time of day. Less, if they don't happen to be Slytherin."

"Well, apparently this entire load of rubbish we've been building up has all been, on my part, a shallow ploy for sex."

"He's making excuses, darling."

"Really, do you think so?" the cold voice answered, sarcastic now as well as vicious. "Do you think he's letting me down slowly? I suppose telling me how much the kiss disgusted him may have been just a bit too harsh."

"But the kiss was good."

"Think of all the boys you've treated, Pansy. Think very, very hard. Now – did you give a flying fuck about any of them?"

"No," she replied simply. "But then again, I never made any excuses."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means that Potter is just scared. He's running away and dreaming up scenarios to make it noble, because his life would come crashing down if he ever admitted he were attracted to boys, especially one so dangerous as you."

There was another long pause from the other side of the door, and Pansy, though she may have been wrong, thought she detected the smallest of sighs.

"I'm bloody sick of being hopeful," he whispered bitterly. "You're the one with all the excuses, Pansy. Maybe the two of us are just finally being fucking honest, for once."

Pansy sighed a little herself. She knew her plan was just around the corner, and with it, their joyful reunion and lifetime of passionate love and even more passionate love-making – but as she could reveal none of this to her precious Drake, there was little she could say or do to comfort him.

It was rather depressing, really.

"I know this is a shitty thing to say," she whispered through the door. "But maybe it'll all work out right in the end."

There was cold laughter from the other side of the door, and then heavy footsteps. Her lips falling into a surprised frown, Pansy knew that Draco had gone.

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This particular Friday was a nightmare for Harry. Draco's absence from each and every one of the classes they shared tormented him in a way that his actual presence most likely could not have. It was abnormal, reminding him constantly that what had happened between them was not a dream, was not a game, and was not, by either of them, forgotten.

On top of this, he had to deal with the ever-present affection of Ron and Hermione. He was, of course, happy for the both of them – they were his best friends, after all, and he had been waiting for this to happen – but catching glimpses of their affectionate smiles, their slyly touching hands, their whispered exchanges – the whole thing reeked of love too much for someone who had just recently had such a miserable encounter with it.

Still, though, he had somehow made it through the day, and here he was, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, trying desperately to ignore the way in which Hermione's ankle seemed to find its way behind Ron's leg. He was reading, or at least trying to read, but it was exhausting.

Harry had never realized until now just how attentive Ron and Hermione were to his moods. By this time, one of them would have surely asked what was wrong, and it would have been a relief to make up a lie about why, if only to speak of it secretly.

But now, the two were obviously too obsessed with each other to mind Harry's thoughts. He had always felt isolated from them, in some ways – it was impossible not to, what with his impending destiny. But this was a new sensation, one which created an isolation on almost every level. They hardly had time to look at him, let alone save him from these stifling thoughts of Draco.

Draco. Where was he? Had he honestly stayed in bed all day? Or had he and Pansy and Blaise joined forces to plot against him? Maybe they were all huddled together in the Slytherin common room right now, discussing the various methods in which they might ensure his downfall, or at least, his humiliation.

He frowned. No – Draco would keep this quiet.

He pursed his lips. He could not escape his final glimpse of Draco, his hair wild and unkempt, startling white against the black of the sky and the shifting emerald of the grasses, his eyes wide with more than shock – with a kind of sincerity Harry had never seen in them before. He was not only angry – he was wounded.

Harry closed his book, excusing himself quietly and wandering up to bed.

His theory, of course, was that Draco had been anything but sincere. The entire thing had been a charade, a trap of sorts, to get Harry to sleep with him, because it was impossible to imagine that Draco might want anything more than that. He had even considered that Draco was trying to get close to him in the name of the dark Lord.

But sliding into the covers, he could not erase from his mind that last glimpse of his grey eyes, luminous in the moonlight, so fragile they might shatter, watching him walk away.

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Draco: _Lame._

Ms. Rose: How dare you! I love that last line. It's sweet.

Harry: I'm so introspective!

Draco: "So fragile they might shatter." You dare to call me _fragile_? If you weren't a Muggle whose death would as easy as snuffing out a candle, I might demonstrate to you the extent of my power.

Harry: I believe she's referring to your _emotional_ vulnerability.

Draco: This story is ridiculous. We spend most of our time sulking alone about each other. What are we, a pair of pathetic, whiny little girls? Why don't we take out our emotions the healthy way, and duel one another to the death?

Ms. Rose: Because you're avoiding one another. At least, for now.

Harry: At least until Saturday, when Pansy's plan commences. Are you going to put in a long, exciting Quidditch scene?

Draco: I have an idea for the ending! Have Harry fly into the stands and die of a head injury before this nasty little "plan" even has a chance to hatch into existence.

Ms. Rose: I don't think that's very romantic.

Harry: We'd have to put WARNING CHARACTER DEATH in the summary, and then who would read it?

Draco: Oh, we're obligated to warn readers of content, now? Why not add WARNING COMPLETELY UNREALISTIC LOAD OF RUBBISH, or, for those American readers, WARNING COMPLETE BULLSHIT?

Ms. Rose: I think WARNING HOT SEX would be acceptable.

Harry: WARNING! BITCHY BLONDE COMMENTARY.

Draco: Oh, go stick a wand up your arse.


	34. Cheers to True Love and Impending Doom

**- Secrets of the Forbidden Broomcloset –**

**Authoress Ramble**: Not much to say, I guess, except sorry for being gone so long.

**Warnings**: This story has been rated "R" for repeated use of **language** and **eventual sexual content** (some now). Also, it is **slash**, though I don't feel that should influence the rating ... read as your morals and inhibitions permit.

**Disclaimer**: _Obviously_ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger et cetera, et cetera, all belong to J.K. Rowling, the rich genius authoress of the entire Harry Potter series, and also her publishers, et cetera, et cetera, though all original plot lines independent of her novels and her characters belong to me as they were derived from my own twisted mind, et cetera, et cetera, so please do not sue me as I am but a poor, lonely, slash-loving girl authoress, et cetera, et cetera.

**Semi-Important Note If You're Confused**: Today is Saturday in the story, the day of the Quidditch match!

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He was falling gracefully to the ground, gliding towards the sea of dark grasses that lay spread out beneath him. The midnight wind swept through them like waves on an ocean, and it was beautiful, suddenly. Even the familiar drop of his stomach at the final descent seemed to fit into something greater than himself.

His feet skimmed the ground, then found their footing. He blinked at the moonlight, staring out blindly until he saw him, a glowing figure sitting still as a statue among the dark grasses. He didn't hesitate as he walked forward, the grass crunching beneath his feet, not stopping until he was just a few paces from his back.

He slowly parted his lips, letting the broom fall from his hand.

His white-blonde hair was shimmering, ethereal in the moonlight. His skin was porcelain under the long strands that shifted softly in the wind over his face; his eyes were pale grey, luminescent, lifeless, impossibly calm.

"You came back," he said carefully. It seemed all the emotion had been drained from his voice.

Harry watched him speak, realizing that his lips, at least, were pink. He was alive underneath all that glowing white; their blood was the same.

"I had to do it," he heard himself say firmly, even as his chest tightened with the apprehension of what he was about to admit. "I couldn't leave; not with you staring after me like that."

Draco turned, tilting his head just slightly to look at him. His hair shifted so that it fell over one crystalline grey eye. Slowly, his lips curved into a secretive smile.

"Still think I'm a whore, then?" he asked, almost playfully, though Harry knew they were still treading unsafe ground.

"You're too pretty to be a whore," he said, his chest seizing as he heard himself say it, but unable to take it back. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then he recovered, pursing his lips as he waited for his answer.

But Draco seemed only amused. His little smile grew larger; Harry thought he might laugh.

"I'm glad you finally noticed," he said with the same condescending tone.

"I've been noticing for awhile now," Harry said, still unable to match the unnerving confidence Draco seemed to have mastered. "But the moonlight helps."

"You aren't a bad vision yourself," the blonde answered slyly. "Hair disheveled from the wind. Lips parted in anticipation. Tall, dark and shaking like a virgin."

Harry gasped slightly under his breath. Some part of him wanted to retaliate with some witty, defensive remark – but a greater part of him, the overwhelming part, only allowed him to stare at Draco in barely masked horror.

The blonde took a step forward, still smiling that frightening all-knowing smile. As if to stop him in his tracks, Harry did the only thing he could to distract him – he opened his mouth and spoke.

"So how are we going to do this, then?" he asked, voice trembling slightly. He swallowed to make it solid again.

"Well, I'm really very reasonable," he replied frankly, his smile widening briefly into true amusement. "But for the first time, you get bottom."

"No! No, I mean," Harry staggered, watching as the boy before him took another slow, patient step. "I mean, you're on the other side. What about Lord Voldemort?"

"Is that what you'll be thinking about while I'm fucking you?" Draco asked, staring at him through anything-but-innocent eyes. His smile reached its apex, devious and playful and cruel all at once; and then, he let it fall, leaving his lips parted just slightly. "Lord Voldemort?"

Harry swallowed as he took the final step forward. He was close enough now that he could touch him anywhere easily; he smelled like jasmine and cinnamon, and at once he felt a hand pressing gently against the back of his hip.

He realized he hadn't answered.

He realized he couldn't.

In a moment he had wrapped his arm around Draco's back, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt as their lips finally crashed together. He was warm, incredibly warm; and wet and hot and moving in perfect time with every movement he made. Before he had a chance to think he was jerking his shirt up from under his belt and running his hand freely against the pale skin of his back, opening his mouth to taste his tongue. It was heaven again, and this time, he didn't intend to stop.

In what seemed like an instant, he was suddenly on his back. The grasses waved around them, but he only saw them from the corner of his eye for a brief second, because just as quickly, Draco was undoing the buttons of his shirt. He made purposefully slow progress, greeting each new patch of exposed skin with a tender kiss, and, occasionally, a little bit of suckling.

Harry closed his eyes, listening to the muffled moans that left his mouth in short gasps. Never had he felt so completely exposed, and never had he loved it so much. He was on fire in all the right places, and best of all, he knew it was only the beginning.

Draco yanked the bottom of his shirt from his belt, leaning down to plant an especially slow kiss on the skin just below his navel. He shivered to feel that silky white hair grazing his skin, and then, out of curiosity more than anything, he opened his eyes. Clumsily, he tried to prop himself up on his elbows to look down at him.

The blonde looked up at him briefly, flashing him a look in his fierce grey eyes so wicked and playful that it was all Harry could do not to stare at him in amazement. He wanted to say something about how amazing it was, but he was unbuckling his belt, undoing the button of his pants with delicate fingers. His breath was hot as he laid down a final kiss.

He gave up watching and laid down again, but before he turned his eyes to the stars, he reached out his hand. Blindly, he caught a handful of silky hair. He relaxed his hand, curving it around the back of his neck; pushing him down ever so slightly.

"Still nervous," the blonde whispered. It wasn't a question, merely a statement; his voice was tinged with slight amusement. "No need to worry, Harry. I'll be gentle."

He took in a deep breath, not wanting to pant now, before he'd even started. It seemed to take an incredible amount of oxygen to speak.

"Nmn … call me … that."

"Call you what?"

"H-Heh – Harry."

"Right then, Harry. Are you ready?"

"Yes … yes, I …"

"Harry?"

"Harry?"

_Harry …_

"Harry!" a voice said above him, screeching in his ear. A hand was roughly shaking his shoulder, destroying the dream with every beat. He groaned, trying to shrug it off even in his sleep.

"Come on, mate!" the annoying voice was saying. "Harry! Time to wake up – we've got to get ready for the match!"

Slowly, and as painfully and with as much hesitation as possible, he peeled open his eyes. Hovering above him, just inches from his nose, was the huge, freckled face of Ron.

Immediately, he shot up, his heart seizing from the shock.

"Ron!" he said, wanting to scream it, wanting to strangle him for tearing him from his fantasies.

"Yeah, mate," the redhead answered casually, oblivious to the ultimate sin he had just committed. He was dressed already, his hair still damp from his shower. "Get up. They've already started breakfast."

Harry merely stared at him, his mind already at work on a plan to get rid of Ron and go back to sleep.

His best friend returned the stare, eying him oddly. He met his gaze for a few seconds, then broke it, uncomfortable and baffled – and then slowly, his eyes trailed downward. He caught sight of what even the sheets couldn't hide, and politely turned away.

"Best take care of that quick, mate," he said easily. "See you in the Hall."

He smiled a bit too casually, then swiftly took his leave.

Painfully, Harry slowly let his eyes cast down to his lap.

He closed his eyes, letting the remnants of the dream come alive again, flowing swiftly through his veins. He squeezed his hands into the sheets, still too rigid, too mortified, to move.

All he wanted to do was scream.

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_Earlier …_

Blaise moaned in frustration, rolling over onto his side in a vain attempt to defend himself against the being that was systematically prodding him awake. Even without opening his eyes, he could see her shining fingernails digging into his arm, feel her platinum hair dragging against his chest, and smell the heady perfume wafting from her neck. Sullenly, he grunted against his pillowcase – there was no escape.

"Blaise," she was whispering urgently, her breath hot in his ear. "It's time to wake up, my subservient little pet. Don't you know what day it is?"

"The day we all sleep in," he grumbled, still squinting against the bright, flickering dungeon torchlight.

"Oh, but darling," she said, her voice laced with a hint of laughter. She shook her head slowly, tutting her disapproval. "Isn't it you who insists on believing he'll murder us both? Therefore, this is our last day on Earth. You shouldn't waste it dreaming."

"The Quidditch game isn't for... mhm… six hours, Panse."

"Only six hours, you mean. We need to review our plan. One little slip on either of our parts, and it'll be our necks."

He hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping beyond hope that she might give up and go away. Instead, he felt the sharp pricks of her fingernails in his arm vanish, and watched in horror as she threw off his bedcovers like a woman possessed. Gracefully, she jumped up to kneel next to him on the bare sheet, thrusting a steaming cup of juice into his hand.

He stared at her, disgusted for a moment, and then raised the cup to his lips with a defeated sigh.

"It isn't too late to abort this, you know," he said, trying desperately to make his voice sound cool, confident, when in reality he knew it was laced with fear. "Let nature take its course. If Draco is really meant to end up with … Harry Potter, well, I'm sure he will. Eventually."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong!" Pansy exclaimed, leaning toward him suddenly. Her blue-green eyes were alive in the dancing light of the torches, glowing with an almost supernatural passion. "That's where everyone is wrong! Don't mistake love for fate. Love is a calculated series of indulgences involving an object of desire; love is giving in until you can't give it up."

He stared at her again, both horrified and dazzled, and before he knew it, the question had left his lips.

"Have you ever been in love, Pansy?" he asked, cringing even as he said it.

She blinked, and for a moment, her mask of passionate conviction melted into something soft, something too innocent to be her – her eyes widened in brief confusion.

Then she sneered slightly, turning up her nose in indignation.

"No," she said, spitting out the word like venom. "But what does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"I'm only suggesting," he answered meekly, "That we may not be … qualified, exactly, to do this."

"Of course we're qualified!" she snapped, with a little more anger than usual. "Save for our little Gryffindor prodigy, we're the only ones who know and love Draco. We know him well enough to know that if left unchecked, he'll end up marrying some purebred beauty for the sole purpose of producing an heir through which to transfer the same godforsaken brainwashing."

"I have more faith in him than that!" Blaise answered, horrifed again, almost too stunned to remember how to hold his tongue. "Shouldn't we let him make this choice for himself?"

"No," Panse replied quickly, the same exasperated sneer on her face. "The day I see Draco marry a woman is the day I hook up in the library with Granger. I won't take any chances! And besides – do you really think even we could force Draco to love someone?"

"No," Blaise said, baffled. "That's my argument – we can't do it. So then why are we risking our lives to do it?"

Pansy sighed deeply, gesturing fleetingly in the air as if completely mortified that he hadn't managed to understand anything until this point.

"Because, love," she said slowly, drawing out each syllable with her tongue, "Draco _wants_ us to do it. He just doesn't know it yet. We can't force him to love Potter for the rest of his life, but we can force them together for one day. That's all it takes - one taste, and they'll never go back."

Blaise took a long sip of his juice, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

"You see," she continued, a wicked enthusiasm creeping into her voice. "The two of them are like a pair of magnets. Right now, they're turned so that their poles oppose each other, and they can't come together. Our only task is to flip them around and zoom! – instantaneous connection."

"And you know this how?" he asked dryly.

"Oh, enough of your pessimistic rubbish!" Pansy snapped, sighing under her breath as she stared icily at him through her long eyelashes. "We can discuss why they're meant for each other _after_ they become inseparable lovers. For now, we need to review the plan. Especially since you don't seem to demonstrate much dedication."

"I may not like it," Blaise answered ruefully, "But I know it."

"Refresh my memory," Pansy commanded, still eying him with slight contempt.

"First we incapacitate Draco," he began, slowly drawing out each step as if reciting a memorized list, "And then, once we're sure he's out of the picture, we toast to our deaths with the polyjuice potion you acquired by means of which I won't even imagine, and I become you, and you become Draco …"

"Yes," Pansy said, urging him on as her lips curved into a devilish smile.

"… and you dress up in his old Quidditch gear and meet up with the team while I go to the game passing as you. And then you lose the game for all of us with a crushing, humiliating defeat and afterwards lure Potter out alone and do Merlin knows what to warp his mind into thinking our future murderer is boyfriend material."

"Right, only I'll actually _win_ the game for all of us, seeing as Potter being carried off the field in a huge crowd of elated Gryffindors might make the luring a bit difficult. And you forgot one thing."

"Which is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That it'll all need to be done within an hour," she said, her smile widening compulsively. "Even by unspeakable means, that potion was hard to come by."

"Oh, bloody fantastic, then," Blaise said, laughing to himself even as he felt fate seal his impending doom. "You mean to say that this entire scheme not only hinges on your nonexistent Quidditch skills, but there's also a _time limit_."

"Good things don't come easy," the blonde girl answered with a flirtatious smirk. "Especially not the Boy Who Lived."

He smiled sarcastically back at her, grinning despite himself, because really, if you really, really thought about it, it was delicious in its absurdity. Their tortuous deaths aside, he was fascinated by it. It was all going to go so very, very wrong.

He raised his cup in the air, surrendering his reason once and for all.

"Cheers," he said, cynical laughter still coursing through his voice. "To the mother of all plans! And here I was so concerned."

Pansy smiled, gently biting her lower lip as she nodded.

"Cheers," she whispered deviously, "To the happy couple."

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Hours later, an elegant hand slowly, silently, pulled back the velvet bed curtains, letting the morning light pour down on the black sheets. Its owner was smiling serenely, her sharp, beautifully carved face alive with secret ambition. Gently, she tilted her head towards her partner.

"Lovely, isn't he?" she whispered, drawing in her breath as if she might sigh contentedly. "But all alone. All alone in this huge, beautiful bed … well, no more, my darling. We're about to put an end to that."

His face was an almost glowing white against the dark bedcovers, his platinum hair shimmering in the morning light something more beautiful than gold; it took on the appearance of light itself. His parted lips twitched for a moment, and then his eyelids, the voices around him just barely reaching his mind.

"Like an angel," a male voice offered, a bit uncomfortably. It wasn't so much fear that clouded his voice as shame; he hated watching him sleep, hating sneaking up on him like this. It hardly seemed fair. "Only a thousand times more dangerous."

"Yes," the silky voice of the woman said again, "An angel. An angel of death, if you want to assume the worst. But you'll forgive us, darling – you'll forgive us. We're about to make you very, very happy."

Suddenly, as if all the words and voices had compounded at once to wake him, his eyes shot open. They stared, wide and grey and too stunned to be furious yet, at the wand casting its shadow down the front of his face. Its tip nudged gently into his forehead – not a provocation, just a little warning; a reminder not to do anything one might regret.

"Really, love, it's for the best. Now please hold still."

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Draco: Oh KAY! Everybody say it with me now!

Harry: No. Put that bottle down!

Ms. Rose: Shut up, you lush. You're drunk.

Draco: YO HO HO an' a butt full o' CUM!

Harry: I knew we shouldn't have taken you to that movie.

Draco: Oh look at me, I'm an American Muggle and I love piiirate mooovies!

Harry: Is that why you punched that guy wearing the pirate hat?

Draco: You are misshin' .. misshin' the point. Which is that we .. we .. brainwashed.

Harry: We're brainwashed?

Draco: That's what I … yesh.

Ms. Rose: I don't know, Draco. I think that Johnny Depp has cast a very real if not actually magical spell over us all with his sexiness. That's hardly my doing.

Draco: Joshnny Depp has nothing on me! You hear me … noshin'.

Harry: There's no need to be jealous, dear. I don't think we could reconcile the age difference.

Draco: Are you saying that I … jealous … NEVER. Cap'n Jack Parrow is such a poof which is whhhy I sing .. I sing the pirate song!

Ms. Rose: Oh no … no no no! Not the pirate song!

Harry: -sigh- Here we go again …

Draco: THREEEEE men on a spent man's chest, YO HO HO and butt full o' …


End file.
